My body draws a line that holds my soul, nests my essence, my existence, my memories. It is alive. Sometimes slower, sometimes desperate, sometimes lives in the vertigo. My body is tired as fuck. My body died a few times before. My body has been changing and it’s rusty. my body needs rest and peace.

Somedays, my body wants to be reaped of anger and shout in fury. My body is tired of all of you and of what is expected from them.

My body is where I nest my sorrows and my grieves turn into scars, stretch marks, my skin folds and creases. My joints move slower and my breath is heavier.

I long for them, for their memory. My body recalls our stories through every pore of my skin. I miss their touch, the way the chocked me, fondled, caressed my belly and my hips. My body echoes the way they cherished and despised me. I was their queen and their worst nightmare, ai was their mother and the reckoner motherfuckingwhore. I broke them for a while, they cracked me as well. We left our bodies sored in silence and loneliness.

I touched them and we lived throughout time touch pleasure space. We held hands like husband and wife.

But they always knew, I always told them:

That I have no gods

I have no masters

I have no husband