I’m a freckled 5'5'' solider.
I like wrestling with my dogs so that my jeans retain a layer of fur -
even if they were my favorite pair, I will wear the hair with pride.
...but I wear make-up to make up for the way I lose my face
looking in mirrors, measuring my stomach by fingertip lengths,
wondering how the 5th grade girl who’s lungs wanted too much air
would care about the way I carry my chest now:
like a treasure that’s been too long held under the sea
If that girl could see me, she’d write an entry in her Lisa Frank diary
about hope, instead of fear, rejection, fear of rejection and God -
I remember praying God would change me and I’m so glad he didn’t.
I’m glad that I got the chance to do this one on my own.
I have grown into a person, with a weird shaped head and too small feet,
with a spotted heart that finds ways to beat.
For those who call me damaged, including myself (mostly myself) -
like hell.
I’m still as completely as valid as a function as I was
as a small purple infant with light blonde fuzz
I was what I was and I am what I’ll be:
a freckled 5’5’’ ocean tide, shifting into me.

when do you push the fangs away
and when do you climb onto its tongue?
...is this grieving something healing,
or am I simply reeling myself in -
back into a place that no longer needs me
a bed that no longer fits me

if I could shrink enough to fit into your arms,
I would;
but what I'm wondering as I'm heaving,
still weaving your hair out of pillow cases,
is if I should.

time travel is not just theoretical anymore -
I do it all the time when
I think of soft red sweatshirts
boyish high pitched laughter
the smell of day-old Old Spice
quiet lips;
tired morning breath
your hands
coming and going