Popcorn

My fingers weave my hair into a braid

Twisting in the experiences I’ve faced:

The “girliness” insults

That say I’m not delicate enough,

The jokes about how I look,

The sun sets past the moon.

The moon rises past the sun.

The same thing, spoken differently.

I love you.

You are my heart.

Both convey a deep care…or so they should.

I write,

words appearing.

I write,

meaning endearing.

I write,

hope nearing.

I write,

not fearing.

I write,

I write,

I write.

I write because light paper can carry things

Things that are too heavy 

What am supposed to do when I don’t have my journal

Am I meant to feel things?

My fingers tremble as I take slow step after slow step toward the end of the Polaris hallway.

Walking towards the community building, I find myself growing nervous. I see the signs for the support groups, one for each species. As I get closer I see them, the humans.