A ritual of loathing

I hate my body.

A small figurine.

A shapeless bone.

And fractioned flesh.

Fermented blood of the feelings within.

Corrupted by memory and space.

Crafted by time and void.

I hate my body five times a day.

Like a prayer unperformed.

Like a shadowless tower of soil.

A moving figure out of the cold.

I hate my body as it moves.

Still.

As it breathes.

Instinctively alive.

Instinctively here.

I hate my body and what it sees—

how it performs for the crowd of spheres:

voices and stares and motionless selves.

I hate it as it speaks and as it prays.

As it rises.

As it descends.

I hate it as it decays.

I learned to hate it as a child.

And as I grew,

I hated the reflection of it too.

I figured

my body is everywhere—

even within you.