My Monday Metrical Musings #39

man crying on field

Muscle memory

The body is built
Be it skinny or fat
Every stitch
Every itch
To never forget

The body has
The perfect memory
Every flinch
Every singe
Burned into its anatomy

I learned of this
A while ago
When an innocent question
Caused my being to convulse.
I thought I had forgotten
Something that happened
Back when I was only just a child.

But my body
Its muscle memory still intact
Every sinew
Every fibre
Remembered exactly how I met…

That horrid moment
In my innocent young life
When I had to confront
The fact that I
Was never ever really loved.
No one wanted me around
Trespassing on their turf.

I thought I had buried
That moment deep inside.
Yet when that question came
It was like an electric vibe!
Coursing through my veins
In flashes of lightning pains
Every muscle that I had
Almost felt like they had fled…

My tired, battered body
Bruised and badly beat.
So much so I had
To admit total defeat!
Succumbing to the strain
Reliving once again
That self-defining moment
When I lost all claim…

To who I was
Or what’s my name.
A lone reed in a storm
Billowing my brittle form.
Threatening to uproot me
From what I thought was my place.
Taking me on a wild ride
Across the vastness of space.

But all’s not quite lost
I’ve learned to live with it.
This body’s muscle memory
Helps me to learn to sit
With my struggles, my past
Acknowledging their presence
Embracing them all
Like I would a Christmas present.

For they ultimately are
Part of my composite identity
Unpleasant perhaps
But a legit part of me.
No need to deny
Or turn away in fear
Instead accept and encompass
All they bring — the joy and the tear.

Cos when I do then I open
The doorway for renewed hope
To enter and flood my body
And make me its new abode.
For hope will spring eternal
Steer me from tragedy
Bring meaning when another question
Triggers my muscle memory!

{Inspired by the following:
– podcast “The Next Right Thing” Episode 170
– books “Try Softer ” and “The Extended Mind

my previous post: “Embracing my life story means sweating the small stuff!}

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