My body is my house.
My body is my temple.
My body is my prison.
My body is the first thing people notice when they see me. They see its size and color. They see what can be recognized by sight alone. They see what my body-- my house-- is. Here is what it is. It is small because I am only 5 feet tall. Its color is light because my skin is light. My house bears the scars of past traumas and nightmares. My body presents itself in way that suggests what my identity is. My body is, or should be, a physical manifestation of my identity. Except it isn't.
My body/ house does not reveal my identity anymore that the color of a body/ house reveals what its residents favorite pastimes are. My body/ house presents itself in a way that rejects my identity. My body/ house presents itself as female when I do not identify as being that. My body/ house shows a façade of confidence and collection when I am falling apart on the inside. When people say they think that my body/ house is pretty or cute or nice I cannot help but doubt their words and motives. How could they think that my body/ house is pleasant? What is it that they see that I cannot see myself. Because in my eyes my body/ house is shabby and rundown and ugly. In my eyes my body/ house is unworthy of compliments.
My body/ house has holes and weak spots in its foundation. This lack of structure leaves my body/ house vulnerable to disaster. My body/ house is fragile and plain. There is nothing I want more than to make my body/ house stronger and less plain. I want to adorn my skin/ walls with works of art that reveal my passions and loves to the world. I want to work and build upon the foundation of my body/ house to make it less vulnerable. I want to tear my body/ house to its bones and rebuild it in a way that better represents my identity. But I don't know how to do that. I don't even know if that would be possible. Because I lack the skill of an artist and the materials of a construction worker. Because I am weak and vulnerable and plain and scared that if I change my body/ house it will be rejected.
I hate my body/ house. But it is also the only thing that is truly mine. It's all I have in this world. It's what I was given when I was born, and it will be the last thing I have when I die. It is my house. It is my body.
