On the days when I hate my breasts, I hate, too, that they are paler than the rest of me—
white like the fish’s underbelly,
like soft and vulnerable things.
There is something to be said for the changeling child
born of two worlds, bound to neither;
there is a freedom in the power
to walk the line between.
Those with feet firmly rooted
look on with misguided pity;
poor dear, poor lost thing,
no home and no place.
But they will never know the wonder
of standing on a high wire,
the edge between worlds,
and seeing both things at once.
With hips and curves and sweet-smelling skin
is not here.
She is gone away
but almost within reach-
like trying to recall the furniture
of the house where you no longer live.
If you could walk inside,
you could do so blind.
But it puzzles at your mind’s eye
and will not focus.
I cannot focus.
Not in a skin that feels false
like a glamourie, a sham,
a wicked witch’s curse
on an undeserving man
with his sister tucked
away in the mirror.