The Hollow We Carry

I crawled from the folds of my old skin,

slick and sticky like the damp breath of the earth at dusk.

Underneath, I left the bones of another—

thin and dry, brittle as brittle stars that crumble to dust

beneath the weight of their own longing.

I am a new thing now,

wrapped in the honeyed coil of soft flesh,

unwrinkled, unmarked—

the stillness of an uncut stone.

I thought I had escaped,

slipped from the noose of my own reflection,

but in the hollow of this newness,

I hear the old voice calling,

echoing from the crevices of my marrow.

They will not let me be.

No matter the sheen of change I wear,

no matter the crisp newness of my tongue

or the fire in my veins,

they see me still—

their eyes are knives,

cutting through the glow of what I’ve become.

It is not enough to try,

to wear the warmth of rebirth;

they will grind me down to the dirt again,

scrape my soul with the same cold hand

they once used to bury my name.

The roots of me,

the ones twisted beneath my feet like dead things,

have not died—

they are not dead.

They are just sleeping,

waiting to wake,

waiting to remind me that

no matter how many skins I shed,

no matter how many mouths I fashion from the night,

the core of me is as old

as the bitter wind that howls in the hollow of forgotten places.

I am the same.

They know it.

And they will always hate me for it.