I have been. I am. I will continue to be. Deprived. See me as I present myself: happy, fortunate, alive and well, imperfect in a quirky way.
Your eyes deceive you. My eyes deceive me too.
Every day, the breath that sweeps me from my slumber is a shock.
How did this happen?
How long will this go on?
Every meal I ingest is sustenance for this vessel that carries on day in and day out. Carrying the weight of one unfair, unpleasant world. Carrying, carrying, carrying, even when it is sore, tired, and worn.
This person that’s come out the other end is built upon the wreckage of deprivation. Built for survival. Immune to much more than a mere bout of pneumonia. But somehow nonexempt from the tremors of trauma.
This body is deprived of its heart, its soul.
I hate to think about it. The wells of my eyes filled with the sweat and blood shed spanning the years.
The only way to function is to repress.
Inhale then unveil.
Deprivation has become my salvation.