The me I knew has been disappearing

Nothing fits the way it used to fit; nothing feels the way it used to feel. The emotions that I used to wear are tight across my chest. Before, there was room to move, to twist, to dance.

I can see the lines that I was drawn in, shifting. Where hands used to be there are feet; and there are no arms to hold me anymore, for I rock myself to sleep at night.

Mothers and fathers have become framed paintings and sculptures that I have created. Look and do not touch. See merely what you long to run your fingers over, if only you were whole.