I think I’ve turned too many people into birds, and that includes myself. Think I’m tired of statues, and ivy leaves, and islands. Sick of the ribcage as metaphor — sick of saying it — that one word: divided. That one word: split. That obvious oak tree and others — I think I’ve grown out of it. The old lines don’t fit. The unraveling string — the red spool of it. Think my hands know enough about knots. About fists. You get the gist of it. I can chuck the blueprints. The tired scripts. That one conversation I keep having in my head. I’ve had my fill of it. The numbers that keep repeating: eighteen, nineteen, twenty-three; I think I’m free of it. That old blue ink — I think I’m leaving it. The silence, I know I’m loving it. Allowed to be a woman, and nothing else. I left those old bones on the shelf. Finally, a woman, and nothing else.