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.