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I was told the body is a temple. I was taught to treat my body like a temple. Sacred, Holy, somewhere God resides, somewhere a person can be at peace. But with time, the sacrality has begun to fade. It has become a realm of my internal demons, something sinister.
My body is now more of a crime scene than a temple.
I've put up barricade tapes around me. Of bright "when life gives you lemon" yellow and black. A cautionary measure for the lighthearted.
Some understand and stay away.
Others push right through like the case now belongs to them.
They say they've seen this before.
They say no amount of gore can keep them away.
They say they'll take care of it.
Only to realize it's bloodier than they could've imagined.
Multiple fingerprints, Multiple footprints: An evidence marker placed for every person I let walk all over me, and for every person, I gave my heart only for them to poke my wounds.
Blood: Numerous splatters, but all mine.
Weapons: Some sticks and stones, knives that I willingly handed over hoping they'd protect me, now covered in my blood and, a pen.
Many witnesses: Either dumb or hostile.
Signs of arson: Ashes of everything I burnt down. Pictures, letters, broken promises, false hopes, unfulfilled dreams.
And now, all that's left of me is a chalk outline. Everything else faded, picked apart or withered away.
My body is not a temple anymore. It isn't sacred or pure.
It's not a place I can stand barefoot.
It's now a place where I need a hazmat suit and gloves.