Why is it that once we age we find ourselves defined by our bodies? Something that we have simply become a bystander in has become all of our identity.

Why is it that what grows around my soul is all anyone sees?

Why is it that I am judged for every mark or hair that I didn’t put on my body
But I refuse to remove

Why is it that I am taken by the arm and told how to act
How to be someone that does not sleep alone

Why am I so out of control for thinking of my body as a temple and not a place of warfare, not a conquest to be had
Why am I the crazy one in a room full of addicts?
Addicted to the place they’re in when they skip a meal, or get rid of the one they just had to indulge in
Addicted to society telling them that for every bone they can see, that they did well
They wear their bones like gold stars
Making sure they are vulnerable enough to be wanted
Making sure they are wanted, period

Constantly wishing to be less
Hoping to have lost more, every morning while looking in the mirror
Taking time, lunch breaks, to get rid of more
To purge what is rightfully theirs

Until it’s finally gone