It is harshest, in there.
Painful.
Coldest burn.
A night’s long screaming shriek, in there.
In my body.

They think I’m in there.
Safe-like.
Logical.
But safe is distance, arm’s length.
Logic is non-existent, up-ended.
As we float in front.
Beside.
Behind.
A façade of ourselves, to ourselves.

I am out of body, out here.
Monroe,
Marilyn.
Norma Jean’s children lost, out here.
Unsoiled,
And Perfect.
Because this body is mine, not yours.
Senses renewing, anchoring me,
As we re-enter selves, be ourselves.
In you.
In me.
Home inside our bodies. My body.