Craig Heyne
This morning I saw a body / that was not there yesterday / everyday brings something new / I saw a stretched shell / I grew up scarred / inside that expanded exoskeleton / engulfed with uneven body / hair a forgotten field an untrimmed yard / to a vacant vicinity / with nipples that point / out of my too-small shirts / boy boobs / a kid with quick quips quietly says to himself / in a middle school hallway that echoes in my mirror this morning / I skipped the same seven morning meals / this week when I could bring myself to eat I felt / I stretched / the skin / it fell underneath my chin I trim / my beard so it looks like my lunch and dinner hasn’t made me / grow grotesque / I haven’t cut / my hair in months / I was mistaken / for a girl more / than just yesterday / by many more than a child / maybe because I walk / with a questioning hip but fast enough to never / answer maybe my presence is too feminine / my voice never found an Adam’s apple / I’ve been mistaken for Eve and all of her / missteps I had taken / measurements that made me / feel like a stranger growing inside / I tried on / nothing my floor cluttered / in clothes myself still unshaved and undecided I can never be / naked even when my body hair consumes the full length mirror / I’m always wearing something / I want to be / enough for a reflection and a desk lamp / I want to be / an aquarium full / of life or just full of food / to be happy not hollow / in myself I want to be