There are pieces of me I’d like to honor. Shards of my personality that edge out into the open, part of the way, or most of the way, sometimes, or never.

There are people that I have been, either in my mind, or in real life. In my own perception, and as a matter of fact. I have been them, and I am still being them. Or, rather, they are still being me.

For example, the precocious, people-pleasing little girl who stayed after class to schmooze with the 5th grade teachers and wrote poetry that made all the old ladies coo… is still me.

The confused and scared young girl, adapting to life at my uncle’s house in the south, then a rental home, then a wooded cottage, then my grandmother’s house back in the suburbs, all that time ago when my family was falling apart… she’s still me.

I am still that fat little girl, running home from school, crying to my mommy about how the kids were so cruel to me. My mommy told me, that when they call me fat, I should look at them and say, “yeah? So?” And I did. And it worked. They did stop.

I am still climbing and hugging trees. I step up onto their roots like they were the feet of my father and we were dancing.

I am still afraid of what I don’t know about the people I know and love the most.

I still love cicadas and anoles and mantids.

I am still that little baby in the long labor with the cord around my neck several times, distressed.

I still fantasize about running away from home sometimes.

Things I did as a young child, trying things out, out of curiosity, I’m still carrying shame. It’s a tether to a moment, from where ever I am. I’m leashed to them.

I’m still the girl in trouble for playing in the fireplace.

Always in trouble.


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