CALL ME IF YOU’RE THINKING OF ME

My body, not yours

TRANSFORMATION IN THE RELENTLESS PURSUIT OF PERFECTION

My body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body my body —

Once a week, I would tear it to shreds with any object sharp enough to pierce and peel. Now, I look in the mirror with indifference. Lingering scar tissue I occasionally trace with soft fingers as a reminder to be kinder to myself, these days, the only thing I pierce are new holes in my belt to cinch tight around my new skin. Pants are now too large for my waist, something new. A problem I always wanted but never understood the true burden of.

Filled with an undying and unyielding rage, I once loathed the body I was bound to, declaring war on my own skin ad nauseam. But the more I stopped fighting with my body, the smaller it got. The more I appreciated my skin, the smaller it got. The more I loved the softer parts, the smaller it got. I believed I could starve, choke, and squeeze my body into a shape I always dreamed of. Counting, fixating, denying — shattering my body.

But I always loved your body. Small, tight, lean. It looked good in the light and just right any other time. I daydreamed of a perfect vehicle to rest my worrisome brain and nervous system — it could be so sweet. So many days, hours, minutes, seconds spent fixating on what could be, rather than what is. Now I look at my body and can’t even recall the words I once said — making peace with what is because what else will? We are nothing but brief bodies, why am I so afraid to let my body die? My body grows older everyday and only thing I’ve learned in this life is my body is not yours, not his, not hers — my body.

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