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.