MONDAY, DECEMBER 3

In the morning I usually avoid the mirror:

I don’t think I actually look like myself until noon

after the puffiness of a half-slept night has worn off.

But today I look in the full-length mirror that hangs on my wall

standing there in my bra and underwear that don’t match,

my hair piled on top of my head. My legs had gotten skinny

for a while, with no track, no weight room.

They look like they’ve changed again now:

the result of my daily sprints to the bus stop, perhaps,

or maybe all the Meat Palace.

Staring at my legs

I remember how they once felt

carrying me around the track,

one stride at a time, one breath

at a time. The never-ending

strike swish strike

as my legs carried me on and on,

part of a beautiful, complicated machine.

My body felt

powerful

capable

brimming with joy,

part of me.

Now I feel like Dorothy,

tumbled out of a tornado

into a strange land.

I don’t recognize any part

of myself. When I stare too long

at any one extremity

hands

ankles

I feel a swell of something

like grief, words in my head

repeating

Those aren’t mine

Those aren’t mine

I’m not mine