I have written so many pages in the last three months, my printer has bled dry multiple times. I have been so tired of trying to dig up the usual love I have for this old keyboard that I haven’t written for myself in ages. I come here to do that today — before I finish the last 8 pages of the semester.
Inside me something grows, like a small stone or a skipping rock, something that can quake waters. I met it this semester when I found out that I’d lost something sacred, and though I searched through the closets of my being — looking right down to the very strands of dna that hold me so tightly connected as the individual with the crooked nose that I have been for twenty six years — I could not find the sacred thing again. Surely parts of it have soaked up to my skin now, becoming me and not me in every way imaginable. But though the same pale sands of my body still make the deserts of my skin, I cannot find the precious thing again. But I found something else. This thing I thought was courage, I held in my hand. Smooth, round, opaque, and yet glossy, desirable, and yet far too expensive. The pearl of discovery — you are imperfect, and that may effect you and those you love forever.
I suppose I always knew I was imperfect. I have pinched skin between two fingers on many days to show that imperfection. I have ignored my funny nose in the mirror for decades. I have been more than aware that the grace that is in my name is not the physical grace of a Kelly. Even deeper, I have known the blackness in that should be red organ that beats all of my blood. Still. There are some things that you expect to survive imperfection. Though I have seen proof that it is not always the case, I suspected that some organs were still working in sync with tides, and moon, and all things feminine. I suspected that certain things were simply readying themselves. I did not suspect imperfection to this depth.
Yet here it is — tarnished like a copper pot left in the rain before its first use, there and still usable, but somehow not.