I Will Grind His Bones* (Redux)

*To 

Make

My 

Bread.. 

This afternoon I got my eighth tattoo.  And short of me explaining it verbatim, it makes no sense.  Not a lick of sense, not to a single soul but own.  And even with an explanation, I'm not entirely sure anyone else would understand the value in it.  So on that topic, I stay quiet. 

But it never works the way I anticipate, this brain of my mine; these explanations of mine.  Because as the needle bit into my skin, ink staining nearly to the bone, I began to think about the nature of the beast.  

I feel fairly confident that- unless you have never met me or have only just begun to read this blog- almost everyone knows that I hate my body.  I hate it.  It does not matter if it is too thin or not too thin, there's no middle ground on this battle ground.  I constantly and consummately hate it.  I would give it up in a merry heartbeat.  I would hand it over in a split second, without so much as a glance back.  

And on that artist's table, laying on my side, giggling as tattoo gun knicked into the fleshy part of my tummy… I thought more about the nature of things.  Because it's not my body.  It never has been. 

It's my brain.  

It's my brain that revolts; my brain that implodes, explodes; it's my brain that hauls my body along with it wherever it goes.  And- also not a shocker- my brain is messed up.  Maybe not as much as others', but maybe also more than many's.

I have a hurt head.   

I have a hurt heart, too.  

And my body bends to the will of both. 

And until it doesn't…

Until then.