Carry Me: an ode to a body

It is not often that I find my body to be mine. Regularly, it feels as if the flesh I was given to carry my bones, my soul and my feelings in is of the order of surrealism. The hands are not mine, the feet don't carry any weight and however much I touch the face, I feel as if its pores don't belong to me.

But there, under the continuous stream of water, in front of the glass door letting in the light of morning, I felt a sense of relief for the first time in this lifetime.

This body I hide, burry, mistreat and mutilate, this body I look at with fear and disgust, suddenly seemed to radiate softness. 

Glistening was Derma under the sun.

The experience was almost trance-like. Spiritual. I am not sure of how long I stayed there and contemplated my own vessel. I simply remember the feelings: my fingers brushing over my own wet and soapy skin, tracing the ink of each facet of me I decided to immortalise; the hairs, the dents, the scars, the veins, the goosebumps on my stomach and limbs as soon as the cold air of the bathroom hit me, sending shivers across my entire being...

It felt gentle. It felt as if I could finally perceive the Love and Care I was holding within.

I realised I carry a deep sense of guilt and regret. Regret of having never learnt to look for moments like this; moments where my body wasn't just a recipient of resentment and repulsion, covered in failure and mold, but of beauty and fondness.

O how I've wronged you, frail yet strong body of mine. And how you've wronged me in return.

You are mine and you carry every part of me, despite the fog and through it all, from now until you lay to rest.