Pockets Full of Posies

This body is not mine.
It never has been.
My flesh and soul do not align.

My whole life has been a sign,
a quiet Tartarus to live in.
This body is not mine.

I look to the skyline
And think of what I really am within.
My flesh and soul do not align.

I must be a changeling who lacks a spine,
forever living in another’s skin;
this body is not mine.

Or maybe something less equine,
not at all of pony kin?
My flesh and soul do not align.

This idea, “myself”, I can’t define
except to say: I am broken.
This body is not mine.
My flesh and soul do not align.