09 April 2010

Spirit Strings

Twisting my thumb and forefinger above my gaping mouth, I pull
strings of spirit releasing the secrets of who I am.

Reluctant to leave, spirit catches in my throat retracting
inch by inch, reeled in by my solar plexus, where it sits.

I breathe in, and remember the voices of kids on the playground,
calling me a spaz, and Mrs. Roper scolding me for being “bold.”

Mostly I remember condemnation in their eyes. I cannot see
your faces, dear reader, nor understand your understanding

of anything that I divulge to show you who I am with words
designed to open glimpses of the place where I reside.

I breathe out.

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