J. L. Lorenz
My body is no longer sacred;
no longer could its beauty compete with a sunset
or the clear blue water of white sand beaches.
No longer does it draw delight at its sight.
No longer does it wish to be seen.
Now its sight assaults all eyes;
delivering disgust.
Its deformity grotesque,
as it announces its pain.
Now my body is a garbage dump;
where trash is thrown,
left to rot,
unknown.
My body is a dirty wall;
covered in thoughtless graffiti.
Vandalized,
then forgotten.
My body is a thrift store;
left only with the once loved and treasured things,
that are now dreary, decaying, defective,
unwanted.
My body is an old rag doll;
Formless and left behind.
It has been bent this way, then that way,
flung against the wall, left lying on the floor.
My body is a hostage;
taken without consent.
Told where to go, told what to do,
what it must endure.
My body is a pincushion;
stuck here, and there,
then everywhere.
And without gentle thought, or kind regard.
without a mindful pause.
My body is a battleground;
it’s been stomped by muddy boots.
Upon where men have walked,
and bled and fought,
shed a tear then disappeared.
My body is a prison;
it won’t let me leave its walls.
I’m trapped in here,
breathing stale air
desperate to be—on the other side.
My body is unnatural;
no longer can it feel earthly pleasures or heavenly touch
It’s numb, it’s sick, it’s a hellish fix.
It’s its own freak show,
where others flock to gawk.
My body is a cage;
keeping me locked inside.
I wish to go and want to know:
will I still live if it dies?
My body is:
A hospital’s burn unit,
the wrong side of town,
the smoking section,
the runt of the litter,
where the lepers live,
a junkyard,
a psychiatric ward,
a bird with a broken wing,
the monster in the closet,
—It growls, no longer sings.
Clamor 