I am breathing the space around me. I am waiting. I am breathing my body inside. I am molting. I am becoming a girl, a woman, someone great who is shocking pink and carmine red and whose brain tangles and unfolds while I sit, and wait, and watch. So are you.
She’s pregnant with moves, moves that rehearse themselves inside, in her dangling legs and crinkled arms. In our hunched shoulders and reverberating spine. We are becoming.
When will I stand up, and when will you? When will our joints stretch and break the corners of this room, the linoleum land so cold on our feet? A jolt is coming, emanating from our minds, tingling, traveling.
Shall we away?