Flesh

I used to own this body, like a pair of shoes, like a yo-yo, swung comfortable (falsely) in this flesh, walked with purpose with flair with con-fi-dence.  In my bones I knew myself desirable, though my eyes refused to see it, my mouth to voice it.  Thigh-high boots, short skirts, leather, zippers, spikes, flowery dresses and combat boots, chains, chains – a slave to an appearance I thought wasn’t pleasing but knew was the subject of want.

Now the flesh hangs off, is places I didn’t expect it to be, product of depression, of building infant bodies, construction, demolition, scars, I’ve made the outside match. It matches now, the complete and utter despair that is in it.