My body is not strictly bound to me.

It is bound to my parents, or the people who unintentionally created me, but did not physically abandon me.

It is bound to a small closet within my grandmothers house, or my first home. Is this why I find comfort in suffocation? Because my first home was within four enclosing walls?

It is bound to God as my mother baptized me "just in case."

It is bound to the five-year-old boy who pushed me down and kissed me without my consent in kindergarten. 

It is bound to the dirty asphalt concrete of the hood I rode my bike in. When I moved away, I forgot how to ride a bike and fall asleep to the sound of sirens.

It is bound to a boy with big, brown eyes who harassed me until I starved myself thin. He inspired me to learn the difference between horizontally and vertically cutting my wrists. 

It is bound to my mirror, the one cracked down the center. I wonder if someone or something can be honest when broken. The truth cannot be distorted.

It is bound to the exercise machine that I abused during restless hours.

It is bound to my primary depression. I struggle to forgive myself for raiding my family's medicine cabinets, but who am I without my sadness? 

It is bound to Satan as I sold my soul in exchange for my depression to dissipate.

It is bound to the therapist who told me that talking to me is like "pulling out teeth." Since then, I have mastered the art of biting my tongue.

It is bound to my first humanistic love. I donated my body to him as his personal canvas only to rub my skin raw. Near him, I held my breath. He would tell me to breathe. Then, we would breathe in synchrony; a symphony of ins and outs. Now, I cannot properly hold my breath unless I am deeply asleep. 

It is bound to my quixotic dreams.

It is bound to the bottom of my bathtub. Time and time again, I tried to wash my sins from my skin.

It is bound to my mothers judgments. My body is a visual diary.

It is bound to a pen that bleeds. I love seeing words smudge on paper.

It is bound to the girl who showed me how to fall in love with life. She taught me how still a surgeons hands need to be. We practiced, spending lazy afternoons with flat palms that did not move. Over time, she mended my heart through treasured moments spent learning how to love being alive.

It is bound to the boy who told me that I am an observer. "Observation is the revelation of magic tricks." I almost asked him to consider not wanting kids, but decided that I cannot be selfish.

It is bound to my first, true love: the art of escaping. I have been sober for years, yet still covet benzodiazepines. Sometimes, I think that an Ativan is the only way to prevent myself from ripping open my rotten insides and allowing them to spill out for all to see.

It is bound to my array of diagnosed mental disorders. I know that I can reach remission, but I often wonder if I truly want to. My sadness is a creation too complex to destroy.

It is bound to my overdoses. Most days, I try to convince myself that I am real; that I did not die during my last overdose.

It is bound to my sobriety. My body began to reject any drug I put into it. I kept trying to get high even when the consequences sent me to the emergency room multiple times. Eventually, I met acceptance with open arms.

It is bound to the girls who participated in his infidelity. I took his phone, locked myself in the bathroom, and called her at two in the morning. "What? He's not allowed to have friends?" Not friends who answer his call that early in the AM. 

It is bound to my paranoia. I called my mother and told her that I thought that the Chinese restaurant drugged me. I thought that there was a demon hiding in my bathrooms exhaust fan. I see a feminine name appear on your phones screen and my heart shatters.

It is bound to hospitals. The bed of an emergency room possesses more easement than the bed within my bedroom. Some doctors remember my face. Some remember my name. Some share tips and tricks of navigating a hospital, such as, "Remember to check the mirrors to see if people are rushing around corners."

It is bound to the boy I thought that I would marry. Thank you for reminding me that it was not my fault. Sometimes, I forgive you. Sometimes, I cannot.

It is bound to society; its perspective and judgement. Lilith, the first woman created and abandoned, was martyred for her "sins." Ever since, the purpose of a woman is to perform and get scorned for it. Sometimes, I like to close my eyes and think, "If I cannot see you, than you cannot see me." 

It is bound to the universe. According to the big bang theory and quantum theory, everyone and everything is interconnected. All particles exist in superposition, meaning they exist in multiple states at the same time. Particles are observed as alive and decayed at the same time. We are all living and dying; alive and dead. We are all connected as one large consciousness. However, we are limited to locality, or the concept that we can only affect our immediate surroundings. How is it possible that I am significantly affected by those so far from me? From those no longer alive? From those who do not know of my existence? How is it possible that I can feel so detached from those so close? Upon further research, pilot wave theory suggests that particles can affect each other from far away because all particles are connected via one wave. I suppose we will never know anything for certain.

Lastly, it is bound to myself. Is that a gift or punishment? I cannot tell.

I am a contradiction; living life with both caution and no hesitation. 

Featured art: "Between Worlds" by Chiharu Shiota.