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there are things inside of me
that beg to be lived
to be realised
I thought they begged to be defined
but they just beg to be alive
Asked again and again to justify my needs
why can’t my desire justify me
why can’t I live to let it breathe
I’m no martyr, not a monk
starvation of pleasure feeds none of my moralities
if I can frame my fear, my shame, as virtue
the parasitic stillness won’t disembody me
paralysis keeps me keen
I can’t wait to be believed
I think many people believe that they are their bodies
but my body is just a vessel of translation
begging to be touched, begging for sensation
It’s been weeks since I’ve had an identity
I feel like a nomad of embodiment
There are so many things I have been
and a fervour for the air I’ve yet to breathe
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