I am tired of looking at my body
as confinement, like a last ditch effort.
the impermanence of being
is the beauty of it.
I displace, upon my skin,
subconscious aggressions creating critical space
in between the me that is now me
and who I used to be:
a bruise placed as a confession
upon the unforgiving curve of my hip
or the marring of my expressions
through abuse over time.
This big event, my singular revival,
is not a realistic thing.
My survival depends upon small changes,
Regular and routine,
that will bring me up to speed again.
to escape the weight of grievances past,
I have to recall what it is I've done right.