I accused myself of depravity, living in this body, these eyes. I swore that god could not see me in the flesh, in the sweat and blood covered face, in the wicked smile I sometimes get when I’m about to be cleverly mean. I was meant to be outside myself, above the pain. It meant nothing if I did not live there, and I did not want the weight on my back. Slowly, as I walked the hardened halls of my spine, I felt the rust take hold. It ate at my happiness, joy was fleeing, all that was left was hunger. Holiness is care for the self and, in turn, care for the other. I don’t know when I realized it, how I was in myself and wallowing in deceit and loss, and outside myself leaving behind time and memories. The abomination was self created in no ones image. I am my body, door wide open but the lights turned off. I have to fix the piping first, the wires, but that means living there. I am my mind, and I cannot separate it from the other pieces of me. My mind thinks my body the enemy, full of pain, and my body views my mind as hell. They are not wrong. It will never get better without the wholeness that comes with acceptance, with white ribbons, tiny pink stones. You have to sit in it.