It Feels Like an Amputation

It feels like an amputation. Not only is a part of you ripped away, but it doesn’t feel as though this reality belongs to you. This thing isn’t yours. Like a new piece of furniture that doesn’t fit in the room. How do you own it? The word doesn’t even come without a bitterness on your lips. The taste on your tongue turns your stomach in revolt.

You sit with it, waiting: Like an organ transplant your body continues to reject. You make every choice possible for this not to be your truth, and when reality doesn’t serve in your favor… When this heart with all of its history, love, life and dreams is still sent back for returned postage, you sit with it again. You feel it with the tips of your fingers. You reach down into the parts that you were once afraid would bite. You search underneath for the disease you were assured existed there.

Then, you change the address on the box and send your heart to goodwill with the rest of your things. You are told that some day, new organs and limbs will grow back again. Until then, you take ownership of things that are bitter, and biting, and unfitting to you. You say the words and take the new name.

This is the end. This is the beginning.