Temple

I was once a shut door.

Heavy, darkened oak.

My body did not belong to me,

like I thought it did.

My legs, con­crete pillars –

feet anchored into the ground.

A red brick fort­ress of stones

tightly stacked into each other.

A head full of noise

like rain on cor­rug­ated iron.

They say bod­ies are temples,

entit­ies made for worship.

Mine has known trespassers;

Heretics and thieves.

They threw pet­rol bombs

through the windows.

Even with me lit, licked in flames,

they still wanted to break in.

Vul­tures

that picked at my eyes

down to the sock­et holes.

Ran­sacked and fled,

left my mouth redecorated;

coated in the dry taste of sodium.

I’m still flam­ing brick walls,

flag­rant and blue.

With a heat that reminds me daily

that my body still doesn’t belong to me

like I thought it did.