She has a new hobby.
She likes to play dress-up, wearing excuses better than anyone I’ve ever known. She can’t anymore because she never could. She can’t anymore because she’s broken. She can’t anymore because he’s standing too close to the window, because it’s blue, because the place doesn’t open till noon. She can’t because she lives here. She can’t because he lived here.
She stopped putting spaces between her lines. She’s too busy for that now, and there’s too much that needs saying. She was quiet for a long time. She was quieted once. Now she needs room to talk, room to breathe, room to write. There’s not enough space in the whole wide world so she certainly isn’t going to leave any between her lines, just so you can try to read it.
She holds things she didn’t used to, now, as if those days never existed. She emptied out her closets without hesitation or explanation. There was a few bags that belonged to others in there, and she didn’t want to keep them anymore.
There’s a part of her that’s invisible now. I know the shape of it, of course– the long running tail and spikes that line her back, and I tell everyone. She just smiles back at me– so patiently, always so patient. That invisible part of her is invisible because she doesn’t care if anyone ever sees it. It is a new part she grew, since growing up, a part of her that doesn’t need anyone else to hold itself firm to her. The part of her that needs no reflection because it is wired into her brain, stitched into her skin, pierced into her bone. She doesn’t intend to give this part of way, because she doesn’t know yet that you have to give away everything you ever hope to keep.
She is an adolescent, but she feels like an adult. She is developing and constantly surprised by how much of her has existed always– in the universe, in others, in me. She is brave, sometimes, but lazy lately, because she has a new hobby.
She likes to play dress-up.
She’s trying on excuses, wearing them better than anyone I’ve ever known. She’s watching others like her, trying to hear what they wear, trying to listen to them, but the outfits never fit quite right.
Listening is never a waste of time, she tells me…
and I honestly can’t tell,
if that’s a new part of her,