After a Writing Workshop About the Body
This is not my body.
Not the one that used to tell everything
to anyone—
I mean everything,
like I thought it might get me somewhere
closer to known.
I sat in a circle today,
some kind of writing thing—
you know the type.
Lots of deep breathing
and soft lighting.
Someone cried reading what they wrote
in the first eight minutes
and I—
well, I flinched.
Not because it wasn’t honest,
but because it was.
Too honest, maybe.
Or just familiar.
I used to be like that—
all exposure and no shape.
Just bleeding out
in lowercase.
And I caught myself thinking,
don’t do it—
as if I could save her
from what happens
when the adrenaline wears off
and all you’re left with
is the echo of your revelation.
But maybe she won’t feel that.
Maybe she’ll never know
what I mean.
And maybe I’m not better now—
just quieter.
Anyway.
This is not my body.
Not anymore.
But I still feel it sometimes,
rattling the old pipes.
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