My Body Is Not My Own

Growing up I'd never know why I couldn't stand my name,

Why I would feel dislocated and nauseous when my mother called for me,

Why when I would look into the mirror I would never see a figure,

Staring back at me.

It didn't feel right in my joints

And my bones beneath my skin;

I wasn't what I looked liked, I felt sickly, the future felt grim.

Dysmorphia?

Where's the Euphoria?

The excuses poured out from peers. Maybe I was just too fat to feel comfortable;

The world had shifted gears.

And for years I felt this way with paint in my mouth, tasting rust instead of spit when I looked at myself-

Thinking that things would change when I got skinny, unaware that it wasn't what I looked like that caused me grief but something within me.

Pale Yellow.

The truth.

The taste of spit at last.

I wasn't a girl. That wasn't my name, not my body, not my frame. I had been living a lie, breathing the wrong air.

Dysmorphia?

Dysphoria! That was my answer, my bones fit in my body, my joints ceased to worry.

I had found a sense of pride in my identity.

And my mother didn't believe me and continued to call me someone else's name, but my mouth tasted like Yellow instead of boring old paint.

And for the first time in my life I looked into the mirror,

No makeup, no filter-

And knew I was a Person.