solitude.
hours and hours spent standing in front of a mirror examining every inch of what, at times, feels like a curse in another light on a different day, where new daydreams and lingering desire turn blood to fear as it streams through helathy veins; all for what? for skin, strings, and lycra triangles that show off every inch of a self-concious mind and and make it vulnerable to eyes which may or may not be yours that covet what's thin and trendy, almost androgynous or emaciated like you never have been but always wanted to be. but you keep reeling it in past all the modest qualms, contstantly subconsciously conversing with yourself over it, obsessing over curves, suffocating in the social paranoia, the part of the purpose that you'd never admit unless to yourself; slipping on all the he said, she said, daily observational judgments and the weighty fear of being the subject of the negative speech that flies from lip to lip. yet, somewhere in the background of your thoughts something reminds you that this captivity is as voluntary and as temporary as you make it, and that freedom is only calories away while wishes slip down your esophagous and drown in your stomach. all of this, sliding down and in and racing back up and out again and again in a viscious cycle that noone will ever know about outside the walls of your private little brain; all of this until you master your desire- the one thing you want most...
with mouth shut and eyes wide, you push past temptation toward what's ahead; to that eternal androgynous longing that will hopefully help you achieve peace with yourself and sociability
in solitude.