Not Mine
It sometimes feels like my body is not mine. Like I am simply stuck in a body that I can operate, one that says the things I think in a voice that feels off, one that hurts much more than I think it should. The mirror shows me someone with a body and face that reacts how I tell it to, but looks unfamiliar. The scars this body carries, holding memories of bad days I do not remember, scaring those who look too close. My body is not a temple, like some health influencers suggest. Instead, my body is a long, dark hallway with sparse lighting. I can walk towards the end, the reward a sense of familiarity that’s been missing for so long. I’ve been walking down this hall for years, yet I feel further from where I started. Walking further and further, my legs burning with every step, yet I feel like I’m moving backwards. If it was a maze, it would feel more valid to not have found the end by now. But I can see it. The end is so close, yet no matter how long I walk I’m no closer by the end of the day.
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One day, maybe, I will get to the end. If (not when, because I’m not sure that it ever will) that day comes, maybe I will finally feel at home in this body.
