birth day

“Who does she look like?” they asked, when I first emerged.

“Herself,” you said.

For nine months I slept inside your skin while you made my bones from yours, but I don’t remember any of that. Of course I mistook you for God.

Who are you?

I mean: who am I?

It takes more than bones to stand your ground. I should have been full of stories, but something blocked the flow. Parts of my legs are missing, stuffed instead with ancestral grief: sorrow, shame, and rage like rocket fuel.

Someone lit a fire under me, and ever since I’ve been veering away on a tangent: burning up in cold and dark, far from everyone except myself. And now my face peels away as I descend into this strange atmosphere. It’s a new world, a room not made of you.

The life we might have shared, if things had been different? That’s a pipe dream.

Who are you?

Never mind.

I am who I am, and here I stand. I cannot help it.