for a time there were cuts and blood on my wings so i used my feet for as long as i could run till i made them bleed then down on my knees i crawled. what stayed okay was locked inside my heart and skull. i knew if i kept moving forward, healing would come and release someone who is me, but new. i didn't know when, and poetry helps me accept the process, the bloodletting and surgeries, the ugly airing and then the sense of clean freedom. it really is a wide, wonderful world and a woolly, wild ride if i have to fly, run or crawl, for in my ripple-inducing actions it is all part of the dream, the short and bloody existence of someone who looks like me.