You’ll be back to fightin’ shape in no time, they say.  But the closest I ever got to fightin’ shape was as property of the state.  My normal shape doesn’t fight.  My normal shape melds, spills, contours and folds.  All my sharpest angles and deepest borders are products of loss. Loss of freedom.
Loss of love.
My muscles remember my love.
Muscle Memory (On PTSD)