I wondered how to show you. I collected words like they were snapped branches or stones. Turned them into something I could carry. Something with weight. I didn’t mind my arms; their fire; or how it made me walk a little slower – more carefully. Every place I had been, I meant it. When you told me my life was not a tide, I gave you starfish. When you told me I was not controlled by the moon, I snarled. There was no way to make my tongue say sorry. I was eating pomegranate seeds and waiting for winter. That slow freeze. That soft blue. There was wind still, but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t lick at the corners; it didn’t numb the burn. I wondered how to show you my body – not as a body – but as something else. My hand not for holding or being held; my hand as an answer pressed against you cheek in a dream you want to wake up from.
(So wake up.)


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