War

I don't feel comfortable treating my body with kindness,
or the type of respect I give to her's.
Waking up with a new disease is an excuse,
something to blame when things go sour.

Speaking foreign languages on foreign tongues,
deciphering feelings in this frail figure.
Spoken to so physically I can't help but write,
yet these words embarrass the prose.

After years of wishing away at myself,
I'm comfortable enough to feel insecure.
Maybe I'll put up a wet floor sign,
But for now, one more slip.