Dysphoria

i can never be myself skin stretching around fat around tissue around blood around bones pushing through, spreading out, im aching but never breaking through i never wanted any attention never wanted to be visible at all i can never be myself sturdy muscle collapsing in on itself what good is a functioning body that isn’t mine i’m sorry that i’m not grateful, i know but imagine wearing a suit of skin that isn’t yours feeling the slime, the guts, the flesh suffocating, pulsing looking into the faces of those you love screaming and screaming but never being recognized, they can’t see i can’t see my face in the mirror i can never be myself because myself does not exist humming pulse gripping small wrists skin weeping in crimson tears and mauve permanence hands lunge through a prison of flesh and bone scratching and scratching and scratching ripping through foreign guts collecting foggy identity through each incision desperate to carve any semblance of comfort of visibility of recognition a bloody noose tightens around my throat as the world fades, i look into the mirror, estranged eyes meet my gaze i never belonged here anyway fingers locked in mine, back to heavy chest visibility in an intimacy that transcends imagery coordination of flesh to expression, ability to hold weight properly contained, self-enclosed sanity the capacity to absorb affection and return it in my own integrity unity in identity; consciousness to body, feet planted below the relief of shared sustenance and linked touch possibility in visions held in warm palms raw energy between us, liberated beyond illusions veracity in being, unsaid yet accepted without exception what is the point of desire through foreign skin?