FREED VERSE

I wish I had a body-file.
Carve away at my sides and folds,
pray the tissue won't come back.

It'd be so simple, don't you see? 
If all of it were up to me. 
But here I stand, my edges yet to be polished. 
And should I try, I'd realize:
my skin is made of care-a-tin.
Shaking, touched by morning dew, 
too flexible to bend, too thin to hold.
Teeming with life
and ever-growing, too.
Unfiled.