Her body cried out.
Not like the wind, not like Mary.
Her back, twisting against the grain she wanted to go.
She can stand but only for so long.
Holding herself upright against the pressure that pushed down on her.
It was pressure.
It was a force to be reckoned with.
She only breathed when she lay down.
Tucked under the covers, dark shade pulled to block out the light.
She only rested when she could shut out all the things that swirled around her.
Pulled and twisted her one way when she wanted to go another.
She ached to bend over without twinges and flinches.
She ached to move without a hunch for ten seconds, sometimes 30,
as she fought against the current.
She swam against the current of herself.
Letting herself stay rooted, unmoving, still like an unbending pole in the face of a hurricane.
Small fractious cracks appearing.
Small bends that couldn’t be beaten out.
Dents in the spaces that put pressure on places that shouldn’t have pressure.
Her body knew.
Her body knew.
Afraid of seeing what she was supposed to see.
Afraid of feeling what she was supposed to feel.
She stepped off the path,
The only choice left for her.
Breathed in fear, breathed out calm.
She sat in the dark unknown.
Listening, resting; resting, listening.
Her body unwound.
-------------------
She stood. Started to strip off the layers that kept her body and soul from the world.
She removed the badge of responsibility; star-shaped with a golden beacon that pulled everyone to her.
She swirled off the cloak of despair; unwieldy wrap that tangled her limbs in all the things she didn’t, couldn’t, and can’t control.
She flipped off the hat of noodling; her brain was tired and fresh out of noodles.
She kicked the boots of burden and threw them over the cliff for good measure. She wouldn’t be needing those heavy clunky boots again, they only found paths of pain and fights. She’ll get door-kicking-in boots instead.
She peeled off the gloves of brawling; the everyday use had withered her hands. Once caring and loving, now permanently in the shape of fists.
Her panic pants came off next. She was done with the sleepless nights, the heart-racing pounding, the ever-questioning spiraling doubt, the bone-breaking anxiety they caused. And the pattern was ugly too.
The bra that constrained, told her how she was supposed to be a woman, and how no matter what she’d never be enough because she would have bulges and back fat and little pillows between her breasts and armpits.
She threw it over her shoulder and kicked it for good measure.
Her underwear, the final thing to remove.
Everyone says she needs them, this flimsy bit of fabric protects her central core.
Without them, people would look, comment, invade who she was, who she is.
Vulnerability stuttered her heart, sweated her hands and feet, shortened her breath.
Then she breathed. Settled in with the feeling.
And working one leg at a time, removed her final layer.
She’s a naked woman in the cold barren world.
The air touched her in all the places she hid, covered for so long.
The world moved around her, not bothered or concerned.
Naked and stripped, she walked until she found a cave.
Glowing and warm, a welcoming space in the winter chill.
The urge to hibernate called to her.
She rested and rediscovered herself.