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In my reading and thinking over the break I came to the realization that even if I cannot wholy understand why I am the way I am regarding my body, that I can still acknowledge and own the reality of what it is right now. I don't know why, but I am broken in some very specific ways. I was thinking this through and it seemed like a poem to me.
Who made this body?
Who made this body?
I remember no catastrophic moments
where dismembered bits
were gathered together
and roughly rejoined
yet it is broken
Who made this body?
maybe a 1000 tiny fragilities
and one insignificant incident
that set the whole thing to fracture?
patched enough to keep going
yet it is broken
Who made this body?
memories I carry in my blood?the abuse and sorrows of a people?
betrayal of their gods?
the deaths of mothers and fathers?
gaping wounds held together by symbols and alcohol
yet it is broken
Who made this body?
with its revulsion for touch
fears of intimacy
and ballooning shell
a broken system?
a mother?
an inborn weakness?medicated enough
talked enough
to keep a person shapeyet it is broken
Who made this body?
fairy tales that were lies?
truths that were hidden?
words unspoken?
but I speak and try for truth
yet it is broken
The thing that dominates so much?
What am I missing?
Can I ever fix what I don’t understand?
the kookums game to the eyes to see the question
give me the courage to look for answers
remind me to give this time.
and while I may be broken
I don’t have to journey alone
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