My body is no wonderland, no temple, no goddess.
My body is not me.
Me is hard to define,
With existentialism and dissociation muddling hypothesis and conclusions,
Muffling sound thoughts and thought sounds,
Mulling over whys and whats and hows and whens.
But,
My body is not me.
Not the me I knew, not the me I wanted to know.
My body houses me, and I am not at home.
But,
I'm trying.
I'm trying while the idea of me breaks down and builds up.
I am trying while my body breaks down and I build up.
I build up to acceptance, I build up to faith,
I build up to bravery, and a smile that reaches my heart.
I build up to routines in the chaos of overwhelm,
I build up to love,
I build up to believing I deserve it.
And then,
I try some more.
My body is grounded to realities of the flesh.
My body is not me.
