The fragment of a fragile heart
by Bonnie Pockley
‘When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste…’
– William Shakespeare
I don’t think I’ve ever felt comfortable in my own skin. Betrayed by it, ill-at-ease, not-good-enough – certainly. It must be a malady of my gender. A collective sorrow many others have felt that starts young – a yearning and a naivety, a desperate plea for acceptance before any preliminary negotiation with the self. An insecurity, a sensitivity, a refusal to show vulnerability. I still won’t dance. As years passed by it carved out a deep cavity that caved-in with grief. It became the raven behind me, whispering dark truths I still believe. Beautiful? The Chorus mocked me. At some point, I turned and faced this entity, named it and gave it place on my body. I conceded escape and chose, instead, to let it remind me of how this road only leads to senseless waste. And perhaps? Perhaps that can set me free.