how do you apologize for something as intrinsic as the mapped curves of your body, of dips and valleys marked with double **’s that stand straighter and taller than you ever have?
tell my mother that i take medicine to stop the tremors, but my body is still a fault line, still a “it’s her fault line” that cracks open every time that i walk down the street.
sometimes i think about what would have happened if i had worn shorts under my skirt. would an extra layer have slowed you down, forced you to think about the territories your hands were invading like the colonists we used to mock in history class - other times i scrub myself with bleach when i realize i’m Turner-ing the corner.
we were told in our youth it isn’t safe to run with scissors but i feel safer carrying blades between my teeth – the taste of blood keeps his tongue out of my mouth.