Prison by Dianna Press

I turn 16 and it stops working the way it’s supposed to
I am 16 and making myself ritually miserable,
encased in too much helpless flesh,
with limbs that don’t do what I tell them
16 and sometimes, I cry so hard that
my whole body clenches tight like a fist —
silent like one, too

Being 16 and girl is bad enough
but 16 and woman with broken system,
one that can’t make what it needs
and punishes itself for it —
sending me spiraling each month,
emotions all natural disaster —
is a different beast entirely

I am 16 and every other night, I tear myself apart
and don’t bother to reassemble the scattered parts
Inexplicably, I wake up whole the next morning,
still in my body and sick with anguish over it

I’m not 16 anymore, and I always thought
that would mean I’d feel better,
but the anguish lingers,
and every so often,
scoops me hollow: pumpkin for the carving

I am 22 and giving more than I get
thinking too much about those
who don’t spare me a second glance.
22 and fatter than ever,
fighting back against this helpless flesh
to build something that can protect
and doing a piss-poor job of it

22 and thinking myself a forgotten lump
soggy wad of blank paper
knowing I used to be vibrant and alive
but unable to remember how

All I know how to do is give things up
and cower in the face of risk
consume
write out bullshit
push my heart down into my stomach,
which always has room,
and bury it all, fucking bury it,
plaster on that face that says
“nothing special, move along”

I don’t know when I started feeling like life
was something that happens to me
instead of something to grab
and knead with two hands

all I know is I’m 22 and full of shit,
wavering on a precipice
knowing I’ll have to be pushed off eventually,
so I might as well jump,
but being held back by the lump in my throat

so I cut off my hair
and pay an artist to give me a beautiful wound instead
the pain makes my eyes roll back,
and my body feels like my own again,
and it’s euphoric,
and I like it far more than I ought to

everything I write that is honest ends in fear and this is no exception

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