I yearn for my youth as I live it. This is what it looks like now. No one could predict I would turn out this way. No hope or diary or school or plan or anything could define this reality. I haven’t even defined it yet. It just keeps staying uncomfortable. And just when it starts to look familiar, the scene changes to black and white static on an old TV.
Small breasts in a training bra.
My first moon on my sheets
And waistlines, that all of a sudden mattered.
People come and they go. Life begins and ends and first kisses happen everyday.
Like the first, first kiss. The one before any other first kiss.
The one that makes you slide your body slowly down your closet door until you are sitting Indian style in your hot pink bedroom.
Wondering why no one else is celebrating collectively, your joy of being kissed and the sensation of being wanted and wondering where that pleasure lives inside your body.
And then we held hands and I don’t think there is anything hotter than holding hands, for the first time in the back seat of your friends’ car. Sharing a feeling of knowing. There is no turning back, and for better or for worse, interesting things are going to come out of knowing each other and wondering is in the past. Because he likes me and I like him and we both feel like the luckiest, scared-est people on the planet.
And I wish there was a meter for that. So much of it happens on it’s own, un-algorythem-able, sacred, unique.
My life runs through this plane of existence
And it courses through this body. Like the full belly of an anaconda.
That is the line.
I am the belly.
I will squeeze through the length it takes to be released from life’s anus. No longer what I was when I arrived and then back to being compost.
And then I will be a tree. I will shine and reflect the moon every night she will allow.
And I will shade the fortunate enough to have found me.
And I will reach and reach until my DNA code defines my boundary.
And then I will rot.
And I will compost.
And I will be born again and again,
And I will not be stopped until the Earth herself decides she is finished with this form.
And then I will implode with my mother and exist only in the eyes of my father who is now vaporous lavender and green mist, just beyond the reaches of our observed universe and sometimes in Alaska.
But for now I am a woman. In a house, wondering if I am good enough and knowing that I am.
And that I am designed for more because in my programming they left traces of my eternity, weather they meant to or not, I know that I have been more and this skin feels like bars in a cell.
And I hope for books in the mail that will take me on the vacation I cannot yet afford.
I’ll wear the large dresses and will have red hair and freckles and murder my enemy and fly in my sleep, or just pick up the remote and hope there is something new on and I roll and I thunder.