the body that I love lives somewhere between the 3rd and 4th surgeries. before venom coarsed its veins, pursuing survival once held in its softened joints; strengthened by self-preservation and deliberateness. amidst softened skin, kept supple by gentleness, I learned to thread and loop errant shreds of loneliness, inverted and satin-lined, to cloak this body whole. and though I could not fully claim it my own, for the hands of others still shaping it, still I chose to try.

but I am not grieving yet.

so when they spoke of picking, and pulling, and crossing this coating again, I wondered how much more flesh I could give. how much more of me would be taken, before I might call this body mine again. til finally I could tend to the bloom of my youth; enjoy its vivid newness. instead I found myself trimming and tucking      loose threads to spin into a new existence; while I waited for the next unstitching. what a cruel peace to be gifted: the liminality of stillness before chaos. before living becomes a questioned thing, and regardless of who makes this promise, who lays this plan, I wonder: if even God can be laughing now.

but I am not grieving yet.

now, I am clutching  a body I must give over once more. trusting that pursuit of survival requires ends and means; hoping I am neither. that the life it leaves is worth keeping. until then, I am gathering new textures to comfort, cushion, and cradle the only home I have ever known. joining seams and edges, laced with the efforts of every self I have ever been, that I might cloister this body, shroud it if need be; cover it on its path toward the next thing, or the next place, or the next me.

Remember To Rest Issue 1