In photographs, you looked so confident, more than I’d known you to be, so content to reside in the body to which your soul was assigned. It sort of disturbed me to look at. The way you acted. How no-one knew, no-one wanted or needed to know how much you hated that clumsy and imperfect mess of lanky limbs and knotted hair. So well hidden from prying eyes was your desperate longing to destroy it, to escape it all, loathing to be confined into something so superficial. You are not you, you are your body, your possessions and your friends. No; these were thoughts reserved only for the most understanding of ears. For the rest of you could play pretend, act like you were content to exist on these terms. Conveniently for you, there were a million hidden spaces and unseen compartments beneath that soft skin that stretched around the chaos like a bandage, held it all together, such a pretty little mask, struggling to contain it all. You’re under pressure, will it crack? It’s getting close, I’m sure of it, nervous and starting to sweat. In the meantime though, I guess you could deal with this body. I mean it wasn’t without its perks. If nothing else, at least it was good for hiding things.