the
shape of me is
hard to describe,
for it has always been
something which i am
deeply unfamiliar, if not
outright at war, with. i
experience a profound
disconnect with
myself
which
has endured
throughout my life,
never sure of how i present,
never able to transition between
the states of body and mind, to tell
if i’m hungry or thirsty or beautiful.
in fact, the shape of me and state of
me is a transient lunar cycle, waxing
and waving and constantly oscillating
between hideousness and tolerability,
a burden and a blessing, distressing or
resting. wounds flare open and seal to
a close, with crude keloids and pouches
of adipose tissue polluting the image of
who i truly am. i am just a creature that
hides behind a revolving door of masks
and has allowed her body to be sculpted
by the niceties and cruelties of the world
while watching from behind a glass wall,
to avoid feeling pain from the hands and
knives of time as they press and slice and
bend her. but if i perhaps can submit to
the fiery reality of all that life and i have
done to her, i can finally start to let
her...