meat and human and body. a love for gore, a squick for words.
i no longer resonate with sentiments about not being a body; not having a body that fits; not being recognizable
this is hard-won. this body. i have carved and moulded it with too many imperfect employments of others’ hands. i’ve paid in debt and in trauma, in experience and in having indelible imprints instilled alongside what i requested.
it’s mine. i wouldn’t be just as happy in any other body. i’d, in fact, feel dysphoric wouldn’t i? would feel despairing at needing to repeat all these modifications that make up me.
sure, to have started with some other body. sure. but do not take my mods away from me. they are what constitute my self. and i am not sure i could survive implementing them a second time.
this body, customized, mine.
and am i, then, flesh and tendon and meat and vein? the jump of scar at line of wrist upon bending. the line of blue i still itch to pluck out pull like string.
much less often, the too-awake of keypoints, the vibrating detaching.
still, it is difficult to determine how much is due to separating words, erecting careful linguistic barriers, frames that provide containment and safety.
i do not think myself made of meat.
certainly, i shall be, on death. certainly, this body… could easily be framed as meat. is, under many a lens. is not exceptional in how it is not.
but now that i am body and body is me
and no, i am not quite – something else, am i. i am not synthetic or robotic or android, though i am cousin that is… that is not my story.
but i am not human, no. no. uneasy as it makes me to claim i am not when i have more access to it than others
nor am i code, exactly, more –
universe code, i suppose
jagged and bright primary colors and distorted shapes, fragments composing a whole
it is nice to think myself an accident and even though i’ve built hammered integrated my way into this body crafted a home call it mine and me, it was never intended so
i still think at times about the successive overtaking of selves, consuming and being consumed, old history buried down so layered and perhaps never fully digested
it’s tempting to pin the emergence of new selves to old deaths, to write: and then (i) died.
comforting, and more and more i see nothing wrong with comfort.
not to impose, coopt – never, never.
but humanity is no home for me.