my body is not a temple
it is not some sacred holy place
commanding respect
and receiving as much.
it is not a sanctuary
open and accepting and
warm for those who are welcomed
a quiet home for lost souls.
it is not a shield, or a cage
or a home, or a journal
or a dead language
or a canvas.
my body is nothing,
feels like nothing,
feels wrong and sad and unwelcoming -
my body is a shack
a wrecked interpretation of a house
my body is a shack in the cold
no heat to provide anyone who passes by
empty and crooked,
creaking in the wind,
leaky roof and broken windows,
a wrecked impression of a house
it asks for no visitors, and no visitors ask for it
and it sits, alone, not knowing the warmth of the temple,
of the sanctuary, of the house
but sometimes it - my body - wonders, craves
not the desire of visitors, but the desire to desire,
a yearning to know a yearning,
just some spark of familiarity
just some hint of desire for company
and the ability to change to the home it is told it can be inside
inside this wrecked imitation of a house.
and a filthier desire
one whispered in the back of the mind
never spoken - ****, never spoken
of wet tongues and come on back doors
things unachievable without transformation
but a shack is a shack, never a temple,
and somehow that is always preferred.
-
(exploring my asexuality - and transness, to an extent - and struggling. it's probably the holidays. )