unlearning detachment, I don't care about my body and neither should you (but not in the way I do.)

Derealizing in the shower. Shapes become unfamiliar, I feel like I'm in an unnatural womb, aware of my being inside something that lives outside in the world. 

Isolation.

When does one start to detach from the rationality of feelings and actually start to feel. I find it hard to place trust in the reaction from people outside this womb. I mother myself, but I would never go as far as placing me in someone else's hands. You can place your hands on the outside, hear me kicking, pretending to want to exit. That's as far as you can get without cutting the skin. 

the child in me does want to go, morph into the current, a current that runs deep in my veins. 

That in fact serves as a great lie. I am the womb you caress. I just don't want to admit to my adult self, I'm not yet done with my child self, I mean, she is done, fully developed, grown. But I am scared to combine. It could come out a failure. 

it could come out marvelous. It being me. I did come out great, but I am not ready for that conversation.

I'm not read to praise me. It feels fake because the hate is internalized. So I detach and pray to my body, my temple. it it mine but I am not with 'it' yet.

(1991 AB Salzburg)

a prayer to my shell:

white, blue, orange, hit one another,

soft blows to my head, loaded wind,

loaded with the sound of rustling leaves. 

An orchestra of working forces. 

I am grateful to get carried by steady feet.

(You don't need to tell me if you have or don't have body hair. You don't to tell me how thick or thin you are. It is not an audition to be acknowledged. your body does not need acknowledgement to be working, stop working against its natural instincts, there are problems of justice, of taken rights to be battled. you are free to celebrate your body however.)

(breast too small, too big,hair too short too long too unladylike the way I sit like my brothers, I don't want them to look at my Mine. my belly to squishy too soft too 

mother like my face I don't want to die unloving my body.)

Soft blows to my head,

hand to my chin, the fights that weaken me don't even hit me. 

I am grateful to get caressed by hands full of experience in loving skin.

the obsession, the haunting, the body.