Summer Green
Why must my body melt before my own eyes
Why must it twist and distort like those shitty tissue fish you get in Christmas crackers
Why must it, except with less grace and confidence and more of a painful confluence between self-loathing and a love of beautiful clothing that just sits wrong
Why must circular circus mirrors comfort me more than my own fingers, because they bend my body and so my brain can refrain from doing so itself
Why must I lust to be long and long to be lusted for and thirst to be less hungry
Why must my brain prioritise deception over giving love to her who walks and runs and breathes and embraces for me
Why must I glare in the passing reflection of the train and thank it for not showing me my perception because I don’t need to reflect on my Self today
Why must I ache for reassurance that they too tear their skin with their own mind’s teeth
and that they are too aware that they are too unkind to themselves
and to each other
and to their own Kintsugi bodies.