To Have a Body

The necessity of a corporeal existence inspires only revulsion. I am forced to have this experience, with only death offered as an escape. My Body jiggles and jerks, a marionette to external realities. Inescapable, ineluctable, my Body is disgusting and out of my control in all but the most superficial of ways—a flimsy illusion of freedom I'm supposed to swallow like an acid-sweet pill. Masterbation and self-harm seem the only true choices of dominion available. How is it that I have the power of extreme influence on other bodies, should I choose to do so, yet feel so powerless over my own? A gun, a knife, a feather, my own hands hold such power over others. If I use the same on myself, it feels satirical.