There is a story I’ve needed to tell,
but I’ve hidden it behind so many bricks, I’m not sure it’ll have the same shape
when I unearth it.
You see, there’s a clock constantly ticking behind my eyes, except instead of
keeping time, it spits out a record of the hours I’ve wasted trying to be
anyone other than myself.
In my dream, I'm a little girl hiding in a body that’s never felt quite right--
always too big or too small--
and a brain that seems far too grown up to belong to her.
Stretch and shrink her as you wish, it won’t matter.
I thought that, maybe if I folded myself up into a tiny box,
suddenly the endless measuring tape in my head would release its grip on my self-confidence and stop choking me.
A body can only be pulled in so many directions before it breaks.
When I look in the mirror, I see a map to my soul that’s buried in my stretch marks and maybe one day, I’ll learn to just
and the way home will be obvious to me too.
This skin has a story to tell. I’ll be able to someday. For now, I’ll sit and try to grow
comfortable with my reflection.
All clocks stop ticking eventually.
Writer, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.