To know I'm not my body,
to forsake the form I take,
would none of this be chosen?
Would I hold it all as fake?
It goes to waste, a passion play,
the institutions I never gave any weight.
It pulls the rug and culls your heart.
Anxieties drum and fluctuate.
Grows harder to articulate.
We come apart in different ways.
Sorted by your mind,
captive as a miracle.
