Dysphoria.

It's all in the body.

I’m overwhelmed by the dysphoria I am engulfed in. I thought I knew how to swim, but I’m drowning. Suddenly I am reminded of the shuddering wails of my ancestors. Kinky roots scalped. Stripped of their uniqueness and forcibly removed from their homes. Indigenous languages dismembered by brutal European tongues.

I never felt like my body belonged to me. I wonder how they reclaimed theirs. Will Black bodies ever be free to exist? I smell the putrid fumes that violate their lungs, permanently burning their throats. I see the wooden ship sailing, constricting and inhumane.

They weren’t given permission to weave histories into coiled hair with their hands. Or to sing sorrows. They just did.

The waves pull me in and force my body to sink deeper into the depths of Lake Michigan. A seemingly rich blue that glimmers beautifully when highlighted by the moon. Though, it has swallowed cars, Divvy bikes, and Lime scooters whole. I almost sank to the bottom. I imagined myself as an iridescent pebble being thrown across the lake. The brief indentations created as I skipped across were astonishing. My ancestors pushed me back up.

I’ve since learned to respect the way the lake flows. For it is not to be fucked with.

Dysphoria is a highly potent liquid substance that permeates my body. I wish I could say it only affected me. It appears to be sentient, as it disguises itself as blood to go undetected when observed under a microscope. For fear of being destroyed by the host, it constantly shifts into more unrecognizable forms. Unique to the sufferer. Altering the chemical makeup of the body it slyly resides in. No one can attest to the severity of this pain except you, the mind detached from the body.

Initially, it was manageable, only affecting my chest. The solution was to apply pressure to the area as the liquid escaped through my pores due to the discomfort it felt. I did it daily to ensure its demise. Then it spread uncontrollably. Corroding my body like rain to the chain on an abandoned bicycle. Left rusted, stiff, and static. Wreaking of wet copper. Once the owner finally realizes the damage their neglect caused, they cannot afford to repair it. So it sits idle. Waiting for an opportunity to spin again.

I am that bike, waiting to recover from the ailment of dysphoria. Except my chains weigh me down so hard, I can only lie in bed.

Somehow I’ve become an inanimate object controlled by a virus that consumes me entirely. In my most weakened state, no one believes that I’m hurting. It thrives off of deception. I lie and say I’m fine. It’s almost as if it knows I’m losing my strength to keep fighting back.

Dysphoria wants me to wither away in a casket, as I kill myself by starvation. Depriving myself of the nourishment that love could provide. I want it to be wrong. Correction: white supremacy wants me dead. They never meant us for us to survive. To claim ownership of our bodies, so they are not recognized as property. I want to live. I will sing until our bones no longer ache. Until hunger has evaporated from the poisoned body of water we are entrenched in.

I’m overwhelmed by the dysphoria I am engulfed in. I know how to swim to shore now, because they couldn’t.