Womanhood was the thing that no one wanted.
And it waited patiently behind me
as I found myself outside of expectation.
The rivering – when I became water to flow through the bad –
happened to a woman -before who I am–,
does she not matter?
Did I forget her body while Her horrors are my present?
2013 to 2015, ink and cloth can transform your corpse
but not your being.
Sometimes I feel I am two people, with very different hearts,
trying to coexist with the same body.
When one is satiated, the other aches.
I lived a life outside womanhood and she waits for me, still.
I am worn. I do not know if my birthplace is the same as my home.
I wonder, does everyone else grieve (for themselves)?