My body is the cover to my story: Dark under eye circles, thinness, a curly pixie cut.
My mind is each chapter: Anxiety, love, self-doubt, optimism, perfectionism.
My body is constantly telling me to stop.
“Slow down.” “Be happy.” “Breathe.” “Listen.” “Accept it.”
I ignore the warnings until I crumble in surrender to fatigue.
My mind is having multiple conversations every minute.
“You’re worthless.” “You’re worth it.” “You’re a burden.” “Your presence matters.” “You’re alone.” “You’re loved.” “You’re broken.” “You’re strong.”
I cannot ignore my mind, hence my crumbling and surrender.
My body is both my enemy and my security.
My pieces do not fit.
I am not a finished puzzle.
I’m supposed to be healed.
I’m supposed to be healthy.
My body is a vessel around the mess that is my mind.
It is an illusion of optimism and health.
It suppresses the realities of my thoughts.
My body is an anchor, but my mind is searching for air.
My mind needs to be heard.
It can no longer be silenced.
It aches for recognition.
My body is weak, but it is capable.
My mind is a mess, but it is capable.
My body has transformed dead roots into beautiful vines.
My mind has transformed death from a solution to a fear.
My mind and body were once the villains of my story
They have built the foundation
Upon which I have risen.