It's unreliable.
But parts of it run like clockwork.
It's abused, had things shoved in it, up it, through it, been starved, overfed, and beaten.
Yet in it's forgiveness, it heals.
You see, it's made to survive.
It's susceptible to much outside of itself
but rebels and fights.
It brings pleasure and pain.
It's been cut, sometimes on purpose and only leaves a scar
as a memory or a lesson.
It allows one to do anything to it
but stays independent in many ways.
It can be morphed but stays the same.
It's been looked at too closely and cursed but remains.
Sometimes it's cherished and cared for and at other times, severely neglected.
We miss it when a part is gone but ignore it up until then.
We push it to its limits or allow it to waste away.
What shall I put my body through today?
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