I wrote this when I’d just started university, a time of huge change for many people:
My relationship with my body changes every day,
I can’t find any continuity within myself,
and I definitely should not have read so
much ‘Mrs Dalloway’ before going to bed.
Septimus has died.
I would say my body is my own but I do not think
I own my body; I’m convinced I am my body
-my body and my past. It depends on the day
and the people and my mood what I’ll say.
My mind is changing.
But I have no way of knowing if I do have a mind,
my body seems stuck for now- such a shame;
My confidence is dictated by my skin
but I know wanting men’s approval is a sin.
That’s not what matters.
Saying sorry is so British but I may take it too far,
I’m genuinely sorry- just for existing sometimes,
But I don’t know I definitely do exist-
my minds memory tells me my body persists.
I think I’m changing.