My body is a cage - a prison woven
with shame and guilt, bars etched with
relentless numbers. I wear these
thoughts like chains, tight around my
chest, heavy against my back. They
reach down my throat, deeper than
reason could ever hold out.
I don't know hunger cues. I can bend,
distort, scarce them. I'll dance
without music; let the orchestra know
that, on this stage, we don't perform
for passion. We are the daughters of
compulsion; we derive from obsession.
My ribs fold inward. Down to my knees,
my skin grinds against the cold floor
as I look up at the window. The sun
spills through the curtains in threads
of gold, but my shadow clings to me
tighter than the light ever could.
The walls don't move, but they inch
closer. The clock hands drag,
stretching the hours thin. I look at
my hands, defeated, fingers tracing
the outline of absence. The mirror
swallows me whole, a reflection
permeated in regret.
My pulse taps weakly against my wrist
- a whisper, a plea, a rhythm that
refuses to stop. The body does not
beg, only waits - for mercy, for
tenderness, for something softer than
silence.
Vulnerable Not Broken Group Exhibition, AM:PM Gallery, Brooklyn, NY - May 2025