I have told the story so many times
that it no longer feels like my own.
I am unfamiliar with the characters,
these spectres that float through
memories and re-enact situations,
like a fuzzy, black and white silent film.
We sit across from each other
always in silence
there is flour on your collar.
I focus instead on fibres -
on the tiny pieces that curl into threads
and are woven into string
and criss-crossed into plaid.
I am reading a book where
the women are written well -
I put myself in their places.
I do not know myself,
I become what is asked.
I told them you were beautiful,
and I was not lying.
When the rest of the world
looks to self-destruct,
your eyes are calm,
you have every reason to smile.
Born of love,
in that they fell out, once.
My queer body,
and your unsure hands.
By now, you know me better than myself,
I'm sure of it.
And you know where to draw the lines
so that they hurt the least.
I liken myself to seeds
that carried themselves on the wind
to the most hospitable of places.
I do not need to know who I am
to stop myself from growing.