my feet had barely greeted california when my face matched the new summer, cheeks blooming uneven, eyes green as moss and every face i glared upon avoided looking too long.
walking through my least favorite airport chin high, silent and ugly and wet, i grieved for myself, i pitied my future, and mourned my past. something lodged in my throat screamed with more assurance and clarity and confidence than i have ever known "this is not where i belong!"
i cried for my feet no longer squishing silica on white beaches old skin disappearing in tiny fish or kissing rainforest mulch, under-dressed in flipflops taunting flora and fauna and fate
i cried for my skin, abused and bronzed exfoliated in world heritage parks, the first shower in days and oiled from water crossings in a run-down four wheel drive a beard of blemishes i didn't bother to hide.
i cried for my ears, robbed of every accent, of the crashing waves and roar of waterfalls, or the same six songs played in every club in cairns and the pterodactyl screech of flying foxes.
i cried for my hair, for my hands, for my nose. i cried for my mouth and my tongue and my legs.
mostly, i cried for the death of laughter that started in the pit of my stomach and rose up like carbonation to my chest and my lungs and my neck and burst like floodwaters in dorrigo the elation and exhilaration and euphoria of being alive that spilled out of me in screams and shrieks and bubbled and flushed and insisted so fiercely so strongly so urgently that to relent was not even a choice but a right
and then half a year later i sat dully in a fluorescent corridor at my transfer terminal feeling my heart retreat, defeated dreading the long months ahead promising nothing but drudgery and boredom letting the tears drip onto my boarding pass black ink lamenting, too and not a single person approached or spoke to me until i asked to wash away the moment with a diminutive bottle of *** a mile from the surface.