My Body, The Currency

As a child,

My first love whispered to me,

You are not enough

Over and over and over,

The thought struck into my bones,

Hollowing each one in passing,

If your own flesh does not choose you,

Who would?

It was my first lesson in being small.

In asking for nothing, 

In melting into the mold,

The hot plastic,

As it’s shaped into a child’s toy,

It was the first time I realized I do not deserve to ask for space,

That suffocation was my right,

And air was for others.

As I grew,

 Every man’s touch reaffirmed my first lesson,

Each graze of their fingertips taking a pieces of my skin as if it was never mine to begin with,

A thing to be given,

My occupation: existence for the pleasure of others,

The hollowing of my soul,

Falling in line with my bones. 

My own whittling began as I learned starvation,

How closely it mimicked the sensation I had accepted as my destiny.

How I could shrink my physical being to match the nothingness that lied underneath,

A coming home to the self I had created.

Rejoicing,

 In finally having control over my own torture,

I turned to exploitation from others,

Only when I started to feel again,

My emotions screaming underneath, threatening to send me, retching, to my knees,

The donating of my body in exchange for a reminder my worth,

A reminder that I had no worth,

Using their weakness to mask my own,

Allowing their hands to take back ownership of my being,

A shock sent through my soul,

Culminating in silence.

The fight stilled within me,

I find comfort in the familiar numbness.

(Darkness)