You know how your body will always fight to stay alive, even as your brain is convinced death is the only way out?
I don’t understand that. That there’s an override system in my skeleton that refuses to be poisoned, drowned, crashed in some metal frame on the side of the Interstate.
They say your body is your own, a temple or a goddess, painted in positive adjective that make circus freaks into beauty queens.
I am realizing my body is not my own. My thoughts are my own; memories and faces and internal monologue that is mine to control.
The body, however, is a mind of its own. I can think of suicide until my wrists are scarred and my throat is raw, but my body will continue to form scars over wounds and fight just to be.
It’s tragic, the way we wage war within ourselves. There should be some accord, some international peace treaty to write that means you’re done with destroying yourself.
The war without an accord will endure well into old age, when life takes a strange turn and is given through oxygen tanks and treatments to keep organs from finally giving up.
In the end, isn’t that the solution?