Somebody gave me this body; what do I do with it now?
It’s a very remarkable body, and nobody’s body but mine.

I’m alive and I breathe, I’m strong and tall
Won’t somebody tell me who to thank for it all?

I’m the gardener and the flower, too
And in this prison of a world I’m not alone.

When I move, when I breathe, I leave my mark
On the everlasting window pane that keeps out the dark.

It’s the mark of myself! And that mark will remain
On the cold transparence of that window pane.

Life beyond the glass may darken, day to day
But my mark on that window pane will never go away.

— Osip Mandelstam

But recently I’ve been hating my body again. I can not love it if it doesn’t fit the perfection frame.

I hear voices in my head,

saying that you might come back.

Oh, but I don’t want you.

Oh, but I don’t want you.

I’ve had a blast since you’ve been gone,

and I’m not waiting for your ring back home.

They think I am strong.

They think they are not hurting me

while sharpening their knives

on with my skin.

They think they are not stabbing

me. That they are just gently pressing

their tips in my chest. How can they

think they are not scaring me,

with leaving

open wounds for the world to see.