We do not make of ourselves clean lines, nor do we tend to follow them. When we do, it is accident or anomaly. Some call it miracle, but what if the real miracle is how we bulge and bleed, leak and tear? The ways we absorb more than we should be able to hold. If we were ideals, we would not be this way. If we were ideas, we would not be this way. But this is the thing with being bodies. We are made of so much stuff, until we aren’t anymore. To keep growing, we have to leave parts of ourselves behind. We are here to collect ourselves. This beginning is also an aftermath. We gather ourselves in pieces, and then we let them fly.
This beginning is also an aftermath…