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.


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