water rolls down the forestpath of hair that lines my stomach,
trickles down over hips that i have loved, hated, loved again,
pools in the shower drain with the oilslick sheen of my shampoo.
the process of wastewater is a mystery to me, but i know this in my heart:
one day, it will make its way to the sea.
one day, i will be standing with someone i love,
shoulder to shoulder under an awning to hide from the downpour.
i will know the clouds even in their new body, and the rain will relearn the contours of my face.
i do not remember what my sister looked like, when she lost her first teeth.
i do not remember what my own face looked like, with the braces that shaped it for years.
nor what they felt like, to my adolescent nerves, besides an institution. a permanence.
i imagine that for butterflies, to eclose is a frightening prospect.
( i imagine, too, that it can’t be. why should it be? there could be no other option for you. )
( and in metamorphosis - flight. )
every time i remember the scar that runs beneath my heart, i could cry for the unweight of it.
i want to go to the ocean again, one day.
i want to walk on the sand and be seen and feel the salt crack as it dries in the sun,
caught between my scarskin and new hair on my chest and the sky.
i want to lean to you and whisper i used to be afraid of needles, once. can you believe that?
and the waves will embrace our ankles, to celebrate our better shapes together.
we do not name the bird ‘egg’. we do not name the tree ‘seed’. we do not name the universe ‘singularity’.
the first form you have does not define who you are.