There is pain within the truth as it hurtles into me. It bears the hurt of ruthless honestly like a broadside blade smacking skin, stinging. It was witness to my labors and cannot lie.
The water from the shower is hot, not stinging as needles as needles are tiny, cold pricks sliding through fat and slipping into muscle to deliver their oily tranche, but hot, hotter than blood. It runs down me, melting me into the drain.
What am I? What am I? What am I? A woman who lived as a man? A man, living as a woman? A woman? A man? A human? Yes, human works. It has that ring of truth like the ring of grime in my shower, uncleaned, testament to daily ablutions.
Have I washed away here in dreamland? Am I marooned upon shores of satisfaction, the goal realized, my wanting cast away with my desire in satiation? Is my yellow sun your sun, too? Its twinkle in the sky is what I turn my uncovered face to, feeling it warm me, aging me in its bath of ultraviolet.
I once painted my face. For who? For me? For you? For reassurance? Yes, yes, they’d say, beautiful. But even the most beautiful flower, once cut, drops its petals as the stem turns a gangrenous brown, the color of dirt.
I am no longer in the vase. I am compost, fertile, promise, energy for others. My bloom is off, discarded. I decompose in truth, my truth a lie I told myself when the truth hurt so much. I was contorted then, bent in curly-cues seeking the light. Any light can be the sun when you are in darkness, alone, germinating, bursting in the dark from the pain of it all.
Now, now my bitter laugh rises like gorge, a volcano to cover what is undone. I am incomplete in a house full of tools for want of will. The irony! Have I really come this far to falter at the last, a wind up toy with a wound down mainspring? Have I spent too long in the dark, afraid of the key in the hole, turning, to set me free?
No. I think not. My foundered craft will float from the rocks at twilight, with sun, moon, and stars lighting the way. Dawn or dusk, it matters not, as by shadow or light I will navigate to further shores where the peoples embrace me, or will least let me live in peace in my rotting before blooming anew.
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