And I stood on the crevice where you used to step on, right by the squeaky spot in the floor that still whines when one moves too quickly through the halls. I stood there and watched as everything rushed inside these old bones. People use that phrase a lot don’t they? Old bones. But at 20, I feel as though that’s the only way to describe this body. You see I am not actually just bones, but thick with flesh that has been built up over the years, filled with early morning coffee, quiet rings under the eyes, giggles under the covers, and hands thrust out the car window. I AM flesh as well as bones, but yet that part that hangs from me does not feel like mine. You see the crevice is still there, still smirking back at me with all my burdens I try to ignore, to forget. But the floor still squeaks every time I run.


People categorize oppression into many different things. For me, oppression came when he threw me on the crevice and robbed and pillaged my flesh. He took me and plundered this vessel, burning it down until all that was left is the ashes I’m left to sweep up of something that was supposed to be beautiful, pure, hopeful, mine, but will never be more than something destroyed. My flesh is not my own, it was taken and all I am left with are my bones, which creak when I try to grow and rebuild.


 I stood on the crevice you used to step on, and I see my whole life seeping underneath the floorboards down into the soil filled with things people leave with time. This body is not my own, and so these bones feel as though they are too old to hold this much power. They creak and whine, deciding whether each skin and flesh I try on would be okay, would help make me alive again. They creak and whine, and so I take off each body I tried to recreate as my own. People say that you can create yourself to be anything you want. But how does one do that, when your original anything was taken before you got a good look at it?


The crevice hasn’t moved in years. Neither have I.