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My Bad Thing

My body is a bad thing,

a sad thing.

Reaching for what hurts it,

screaming for what hurts it.

Grasping pain by the heels- begging it for pleasure.


My body is a hall of hurt-

half-baked ambitions line its walls.

Lust and loathing chase each other

like snakes, or shadows, across its cold floors.


My body is without a master,

for I have certainly never manned its helm.


My body is a weakness,

a nakedness.

Roaring back to life at your touch,

dissolving into a trembling mess,

a heap of mournful emptiness.


My body is an angry voice,

whispering vice in every corner.

Crying out to love

Dying to be loved.


My body is a bad thing,

dysfunctional, deceptive

My body is a sad thing,

grieving its own end

mourning its own loss.



Commentary: This piece is written about my own and some dear friend's experiences with self-sabotaging behaviour, and bodies that just won't cooperate sometimes. There are elements of auto-immune diseases such as chronic pain, ME and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, as well as more mundane challenges such as food allergy and intolerance, depression, anxiety, ADHD, dyspraxia etc. I have observed that people who suffer from illness, particularly invisible illness, often feel like their body is a separate entity unto itself, like an element that is detached from who they are and what they want to do with their lives, and its dysfunction is nothing but a hindrance. Although I subscribe to the idea of celebrating and being grateful for my body, and caring for it as I would a young child, there are times when I can't help but feel frustrated with it, and that's where a poem like this is born.