My world is one where shapes collide — I act as a square that
seeks solace, but it’s forced to abide, through life's tight rings, it
strains to pass. Yearning for freedom, a lonely chance to amass.
A longing to think beyond the lines it knows, for a simple shift
—the means to a spirit, that it actually grows.  

As the nights call me softly, while days linger long, in the midst
of their familiar chaos, I must muster my song. While the burden
of now presses heavy and tight; slumber escapes me, lost away
in the night.

I wade through the shadows, each moment isn’t always a gem,
in this fragile ballet, still I cherish them – boxed in my heart; in
this life of a square.

"Loosing weight is weird" I think as I stare at my naked body in the bathroom mirror.
I don't feel how I thought I would. My anticipated joy had turned to relief, a burden I no longer had to bear.
My soul has always been chaotic-always waging wars against itself, so of course this too would bring conflict.
The clothes that clung snug to my skin are now too baggy. Clothes I finally felt confident after years of searching for what worked, what didn't, what was flattering, what wasn't.
And now I'm looking up how to shrink everything
And my ******* aren't as full..
sloping and drooping down without being rounded by fat;
like tissues stuffed in a bra that's just slightly too big.
Not to sound ungrateful, because I love this new body (it's an answer to prayer really; taking away the edge of my insecurities) but I suppose it feels a little foreign.
Like a best friends house you practically grew up in: completely memorized in its familiarity; marked by memories, a home away from home, but still not the place you called "home".
And I spent so long learning how to love this body; accepting her flaws, her imperfections, but never quite convincing myself, only to have to relearn again.
And in some ways that makes me...sad?
I don't have another word for it.
Maybe it's a grieving, for the part of me that was a part of me for so long; a part I scolded and criticized.
And I hate myself at times.
Because I was my own bully-projecting my insecurities with verbal lashings.
All because I had this idea that if I was prettier, skinnier, I would feel more wanted and less alone...that it was the missing piece to my happiness.
And the assumed projections of strangers thoughts bombarded me into thinking there was truth in those hauntings,
because somewhere down the line, at an unknown moment in my subconscious, beauty became abundant.
I should get used to this changing skin, because life and age will always be forcing it to keep up, to adapt; It will continue to expand and sag and wrinkle and crease.
And I hope I can learn to love those foreign bodies too, though not so unfamiliar....
                           just unplaced.

sometimes,
The time it takes
to curate a reality
Where
The eyes of a hostile reflection
Don't contribute to, but consume-
the moment's prison of littleness...
Is it not possible?
To escape eternity's hour's ceaselessness?
Hope,
is too short;

we perpetuate-
it takes shape.
we preform,
then placate.

Enjoy the madness, its Mortemer's dance!
Swishing and turning its not wishy-washy,
Slashing and cutting the shapes! Oh lord the shapes!
Slicing and spinning then boom! Red confetti.
Look at him go in his marvelous trance!
Spinning and cutting the dance spins in circles as the audience cries 'now do the slip and slide!'
So he slides in real slow now he's in his mojo
He's feeling himself as he's breaking it down.
Its him and himself in his spotlight lit solo,
A pool of composure for his one final flourish;
A swish and a slit, moves never seen before.
The big grand finale and the crowd goes bananas!
There's roses on roses, they pile on the stage!
Mortemer's touched by such lovely affection from a crowd of individuals with no connection.
He'll lie on the stage and soak up the praise.
His roses smell sweet, and his roses are plenty.

I wish I could see how I
look behind the mirror...
without any light,
or surface.

How would I appear
without my reflection?

I wish to take the journey into
that vast expanse of formlessness
where nothing matters:
shapes, colours and even movements.

A trapped shadow
harbours a similar desire!