Identity
They said I was born whole.
But I remember the crack.
The silence of 2020—
no cars, no clocks—only the humming.
Then the fire.
Mania split the bone.
Not just madness—
something was escaping.
A shimmer, a softness,
long exiled to the edges of mirrors.
I saw him again–
the boy I once loved when I still called myself a boy.
We had vanished ourselves.
And now the skull stares back,
as if it never broke.
As if symmetry could save me.
◆︎ ◆︎ ◆︎
They seem opposite.
One made to hold milk,
the other, wine.
But turn them—
and there is no difference.
The body plays dress-up.
Fronts become facts.
But underneath,
we are all just vessels—
warm, fragile,
and waiting to be filled.
◆︎ ◆︎ ◆︎
We are told there are two.
That they find each other, and complete a circle.
But that story is carved into clay by human hands.
In the forest, fungi meet with thousands of mating types.
Not male, not female—just possibilities.
Nature doesn’t think in twos.
We invented the mirror.
And then we trapped ourselves inside.
◆︎ ◆︎ ◆︎
Most people build toward their opposite.
Sculpt one kind of beauty,
and chase another.
But me—
I wanted to become
what I found beautiful.
The softness I sought in others,
I carved into myself.
Six rounds of laser—
not to erase,
but to reveal.
◆︎ ◆︎ ◆︎
I found the body in a parking lot.
Headless. Abandoned.
But dressed with care.
I turned it gently,
and there it was—
two names for peace.
Hanging where the throat should be.
The butterfly stayed hidden,
stitched to the back,
waiting.
Not everything wants to be seen at once.
Some things reveal themselves
only when you turn.
◆︎ ◆︎ ◆︎
She held the clippers like a question.
I answered with stillness.
One strand at a time.
The past fell away.
Not erased—just shed.
Beneath it all, my skin had been waiting.
Her butterfly faced mine.
And for the first time,
I didn’t feel like a man becoming something else.
I felt like someone arriving
into the body I had already made.
30 June 2025
Edmonton
