Sometimes you have to break up with your old heart
in order to find one that beats more clearly, more rapid staccato than sluggish tempo.
The woman my mother was just after I’d been born had hair
that changed colors with each arriving season, and was beautiful during every one.
Today, my body goes through the seasons exactly like she did,
with new tattoos mapping themselves out across my sternum and solar plexus
in such a way that my skin forgets it’s a straitjacket
and begins to think it’s a collection of well-traveled continents.
The first man I slept with asked me why I never looked like the same person twice,
and I replied that I learned from the very best.
My heart never beats in precisely the same rhythm
just as what I once considered to be words
I now consider wounds.
And the woman my mother once was is no longer the woman she still is,
just as the first man I slept with is no longer the first man I loved.
In the beginning there were periods of time in which
I would play hide and seek with myself, secretly hoping to find some version of me
that was stable enough to stick around for a while without evolving.
But after a while I realized I run with the sun and love with the moon,
that everything I’ve been through only kaleidoscopes me into a better person
no matter what pieces I’ve had to let go to hold on to something else.
We all break up with pain in one way or another,
whether or not it calls us back.