Lately, I feel bigger than my body. I almost expect my bones to grow fissures and splinter off within the cage of my skin. I breathe lightly, fearing any small movement will cause an internal calamity. My chest constricts under the weight of this uncertainty. As I fish words out of my brain, the pressure folds into me, causing my shape to become ever more accordion like.
Sometimes I think, “My spirit is much too fearsome for this hovel.” That the sum of myself glitters and shines and spins much too capriciously inside my body. True, my vessel is all odd angles and bloated archways; an awkwardly built ship, unfit for any port of call. You see, the dreams I have had since youth have metastasized, spawning bigger and wilder dreams, which have nourished my soul. She (I) have become gluttonous on whimsical imaginings—-on an non-existent world.
The very essence of myself is throwing tantrums, pounding fists within fleshy walls. The woman I wish to be is battling the woman I have become for dominance. She (I) desire a life profound from adventure, exhilaration, and beauty. A life fully dedicated to the pursuit of happiness; a life where I demand the best from myself. A world that isn’t bogged down by self doubt or listlessness, but is ever weightless from laughter and song.
Currently, I reside in a realm of hard lines and rigid formulas. I see no grace peering out my eyes; I recognize no blush in my cheeks. I daresay I am as unremarkable as white washed walls. I am blurry. A figure without any true silhouette. Yet. . .there is a butterfly that stirs inside me. A creature of impish glee flits it’s wings against brittle marrow, wiling it’s chrysalis to fall away. Willing me to die in order to be reborn; willing me to love myself anew and without shame.