It Is Not My Body

It is not my body.

When the body that is not mine walks onto stage, the ears that are not mine fill with the drone of music I cannot hear. It is not longer distinctive, it does not have the properties that one might consider musical. It is simply a drone—a meaningless soundtrack to meaningless actions performed by a body that is not mine.

The features of the body that is not mine resemble my features. The tone, the shape, the texture, the scent of the body that is not mine resemble those things that make me who I am. And yet it is not me.
The ears that are not mine respond to music I cannot hear, translating every pulsing heartbeat into movement –sensually executed by muscles that are not mine. They tense, they move, they quiver, and they grind in the red faces of men that I do not know.

The movements that are not mine make their faces grow redder, their short breath more urgent, their gaze becomes more penetrating, but they are not looking at me. It is not my body.

When their breath falls heavy in the buxom that is not mine, the eyes that are not mine search for something in the room, for anything in the room to distract the mind that is not mine. This mind that screams out for something better behind the knowledge that there is nothing.

However, it is my soul that attempts to climb, dirty, torn, bloody, and raped from this body which is not mine. It is my soul that begs for the intercession of a God that does not exist. It is my soul that cries for help, but it is silenced by the mind that cares not, and it cannot escape this body that is not mine.

It is not my life. But I am trapped within it.