your hands haven't learned much yet.

that crippling sensation that comes with knowing that you are wrong in every sense of the word

I can't breathe without the thought of failing creeping into my bones

and on and on I go, despite this wrongness

isn't it good to be alive, she said, and I agreed

king and queen seat.

the acute hurt of not knowing suffocates

because I always need to know, need the clench of control

baby boys in big boy clothes, running around, followed clouds of smoke and punctured with septum rings ill suited for their ski slope noses

you're all bones and I worry about you only sometimes, peripheral exclusive, only circumstantial thinking really

it reminds me of when my mother tried to kill herself when I was nine

and they locked her up with women who called me rosemary and touched my hair

old man swore in six languages but could not negotiate day and night

I never knew what motivated her to hate herself so, when she was everything I wanted to be

bone thin, ill and still graceful, hollow cheeks and wise eyes so tired of the world, like I was, too young for it

let's throw the pity party, hmm, dunce caps and creamsicle cocktails, the closest thing to dairy I'll touch nowadays

yes, I became a vegan to lose weight and it worked, didn't it? am I beautiful now, mother, father, classmates who skirted around my prom invitations?

it's a foolish thing to dwell when I have grown past the confines of my clay pot, tropical and unruly

mother with her obvious femaleness, father with his sturdy maleness, bore a child somewhere in between

I'm sure every woman feels the echo and/or imprint of maya angelou in ears and on skin, even if they've grown tired of a preacher to the choir

yes, yes, you are a woman, as are they, though I'm not sure I will ever know what that feels like

what about audre lorde I wonder, this androgynous creature of intimate words referencing the curves of others similar to herself, years ahead of her time

and I hope you can understand why I worry about you and your idle thoughts as you ride your bike past my house at three in the morning

you are a vast unknown, the type that frightens and intrigues, a comfort somehow

a man in too plain clothes and not a mark or distinguishing alteration on his body

you were never bones, and I like that. I like it. I don't have to worry, or feel the weight of my own empathy on my back like the pressure to be a woman.