My skin is dry in all sorts of places
Even on the edges of my palms.
My palms, my hands that I used to press in paint and spread on paper
Proof of youth
Proof that I would grow.
Evolve.
But
I see so much within me
Inside me
Stuck.
Standing still
Yet deteriorating.
Worn edges, calloused spaces
Cracks
That begin to show
In my hands.
That once made butterflies in the shadows
Flapping my fingers
Watching them fly
Imagining where they would land.
Now those fingers have scars
From when I was fifteen
Sitting with my cousin in her attic, listening to Smashing Pumpkins, playing with a ribbon and
Melting wax.
Now those once-butterfly fingers have crooked joints
Moving in different directions
Morphing into the arthritis of my mother and grandmother.
Hangnails. Jagged. Barely Manicured.
Frayed.
Yet I still feel like I’m tucked safely in my cocoon
In my chrysalis of possibility
Waiting to emerge
Waiting to transform
Waiting to move through this
Oh-so-long, messy middle
Waiting for my wings
Waiting.
