unfinished self

When I time travel 

I use beams of light.

I travel on whispers and drops of honey 

that fall off the spoon. 

When I time travel 

I become small 

yet my power is large 

like the tallest and strongest person I know. 

I am not weak when I time travel.

And if that's so... 

Why do I feel so hungry? 

Immutable

across a lifespan. 

I am the one that no one notices 

while they talk over me. 

I am a stillbirth daughter. 

I have everything I need to be her again.

I am a magician. 

My father told me so. 

A cape wrapped round my shoulders

becomes a blanket to tuck me in;

to keep me warm and safe. 

When the sun rises in the morning, 

I can hear everything. 

the sound of quiet in lavender

If I close my eyes 

and rest here

for a while,

the answers come to me in dreams. 

My future is shaped by silence.

This ache that threatens to break me

becomes a whisper 

and then

nothing

while I sleep. 

You are here.

And I need for nothing. 

I am here. 

And I am whole. 

when I throw stones at my own house to build something greater

I'm learning something about what it means to take care of myself. 

And I've stopped distancing myself from the imposter in the room. 

I am no longer the streets;

I am the trees. 

There's a pain in my chest when I think about my life.

This timeline that I've never written 

for fear that it will define me. 

I want to leave 

but this time I don't want to leave you. 

I want to leave what it means

to be the old me. 

This hot feeling inside my cheeks,

grazing my neck, 

it won't stop until I am fully

rid of me. 

I'll be something new. 

And it will be like sitting in my backyard 

while the wind hits my skin

and walks across my hair. 

It will be like doing nothing

and feeling everything. 

I will be bored 

and feel full. 

when I stop being me

when I stop being me

and start being you,

I don't know where me ends. 

It's not like there's this beautiful enmeshment of souls. 

No. 

It's like a story:

My chest is an anchor. 

And the surface is just above. 

I have been down here too long. 

My skin separates from muscle, tendon, 

and bone. 

I don't remember what it's like

to feel whole. 

What did my body need? 

I don't remember. 

The dark becomes light and 

I don't recall if swimming up 

or down will save me.  

You know? It's like that. 

Another:

It's like needing to run,

knowing I need to run, 

and being pulled back by the grip 

of my mother

so that she could hold me tight

and never let me go. 

A comfort to no one

but herself. 

when I stop being me,

I start being you. 

the time I tried being myself in a room that shook equidistant to my soul

I am being pulled by the fabric of my 

torso. 

A million freight tonnes

of discourse 

about my childhood 

rests in the gaps 

between my shins, knees, and thighs. 

I stitch the threads while the knots

unravel in the space between my 

hair line and eyebrows. 

The awareness of 12,000 travellers 

and no one. 

I will fall on both knees before the torrent; heavy, weighty, waiting. 

The breathing tells me when to stop. 

Until I come to a place,

back flat against the bottom of the canoe

stars cut into the night while soil pools at my feet. 

I am the oar.