You're at your desk, sitting
on your favorite wooden
stool; the one with
the diamond shaped
chip on it's side

The sound of your
fingers dancing
across squared
platforms of symbols

and digits

A woman's voice can be
heard in the background;
as well as the clanking
of porcelain against
aluminum (all doused
in what seems
to be water)

You're a woman yourself,

But this doesn't bother you
in the least; because outside
the skin, inside the marrow,
flows an everlasting glow

the kind that gets you up
morning after morning;
gives you permission to
go, love, cherish

and hold

And as you get up from the desk,
the sun shining through the windowpane,
your blouse is lifted, revealing
a diamond shaped scar;

the only one you used to
despise having as a
child