I don’t remember a time my body felt like my own. I was always out playing with the boys, accumulating shades of sun across my skin; skin I didn’t notice till it was pointed out to me by my relatives who, even though I was 9, were worried about the marriage prospects of a dark-skinned girl. I didn’t notice my body on my own. The older boy did, before I could, without my permission. Before that, my body felt like it enabled me to do things I loved, like play cricket or run back home for dinner. It felt useful.

I trace a finger down my chest sometimes, down my stomach (never further, it doesn’t feel mine), along my arms, across my face, to feel familiarity; I do. My body is familiar to me, like an oft-read book, I know the pages and how they turn, but I feel every so often like it’s a book I’ve borrowed and must be returned. I’ve watched, with detached curiosity, my body grow and age and change shape. It didn’t feel personal. I am not emotionally involved. I didn’t know I wasn’t smiling till everyone told me to. I didn’t realise I was skinny till boys told me I was, as a compliment, and told my best friend she wasn’t, as a joke. Will you relax? It’s just a joke. (I am not skinny anymore).

When my first boyfriend kissed me it felt bizarre, like I was witnessing something without participating. And when, a few months later, his hands made their way under my shirt I felt the imprint of his touch for days, a burning feeling that didn’t go away and didn’t feel welcome. I felt directionless anger as I tried and failed to get rid of this phantom touch, beating it away with my own hands, absentmindedly.

But in these moments I noticed my body, felt protective of it like it were my own. A possessiveness triggered by anxiety.

Body. I have refused to nourish it, sometimes on purpose, sometimes through subconscious neglect. I even write about it in third person, a thing to be critiqued or examined. Not to be mistaken for my mind, in which I’ve invested all of me, all of my identity. What other vessel do I have when I’ve rejected this body?

But I do notice it when it’s bruised, when it’s pinched, or burned, or cut, or swollen, or sprained, or touched (as bodies are in the course of life), all the negative imprints taking up precious real estate, overstaying their welcome, making no room for a hand kissed, a face cupped, a body held. Leaving no room for my body to discern which of these interactions are good, and so it's afraid of them all, in equal measure.

What happens when I start to like it? What happens when this fear starts to feel comfortable? What happens when I can’t access my body unless it screams for my attention? When I only recognise it as an alarm bell,

a red flag,

a police siren that goes off in a crowded space or an intimate dinner party

or when I’m alone

with you