Becoming
The writer I’m reading
says he explodes every morning
and spends his day putting himself together again
The writer I chat with
says that he takes time to hatch
every morning emerging over his coffee
The writer I’m becoming feels fragile
like she may need a hug to hold her together
or like a hug might collapse her
ash to ash and dust to dust
But maybe this breaking feeling
is freedom, is change
Maybe I am not the chrysalis
but the crumpled wings
that are straining against it
splitting my old skin apart
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