There were several words you chose not to believe from me. You discarded them without even bothering a dissection. It confounds me how you never want to know what's inside.
"What the point, Celeste?" you ask, and I have no answer because the words I say don't matter. You care for women of action.
I am a woman of action, but on terms that serve more than just you. This displeases you. So you tell me, "Just go away, Celeste," and I am happy to click the door shut between us and turn the lock and turn into myself where you can't see me (even though you never see me).
First, I shed the wig and nose. I take off my breasts and leave them in cups. I sing softly while I unhook my buttocks and tear away my flesh with tender panache. It is a dance for me, this molting. I am anew.
You have never seen me only bone and sinew. I reserve my true beauty for those who can understand that the scar tissue keeps my heart fastened in my chest much tighter than your soft underbelly.
I am a woman of action, and I serve myself by looking long in the mirror and remember from whence each scar came and how, even when seated undone and alone, I am alive alive alive.
Photo by Tiko Giorgadze on Unsplash
