Room 23
Burning. Like sliding front first, bare chest, down a carpet slide.
Everything white, the noise in my ears, the haze in my eyes.
Between dark fused lids, I vision my fresh Trans Masc trademarks,
Incised into skin, two thin, raw, horizontal stitched lines.
Months of recovery, left to realign my chest with my mind.
Surface numb to touch, extracted weight a phantom feeling and sight.
No more Staccato breaths or friction rasped skin from being bound.
Freedom for the air to handle my chest but fear of the background.
Noise of stones being thrown at glass houses and political debate.
Loneliness the fallout of prescribed rest, social life erased.
Whilst I play dot to dot between my emotions and scars.
Where does the medical body end and my body start?
Time spent trying to forget sterile scents, dressings and white lights
Shadowed by cotton straddling fragile skin for the first time.
Fear of my reflection, a memory from a different mind.
Almost at peace, a grounded bird needing assistance to fly.
