dear woman eight,
we were two passing ships in the day.
day, not night, because i think we saw everything about each other clearly for a split second. a brilliant flash of lightning in a sea filled with fish. after a deafening crack, and before months of silence, we let it all hang out. i want to learn to keep it all out, like you. to swim in the sea and let weeds tickle my toes, rather than float above it all in something made of steel and still be afraid of sharks.
when i was six, an older boy who was sitting in the school hallway yelled at me as i walked by, "have you always been fat?" as if i'd been on the earth for hundreds of years, or knew what fat meant. i remember my mom's eyes when i asked her at home later.
you waited a day or so before answering the last question i asked you, because you were thinking about it, plus also falling in love with someone. i admire how you sit inside of your life. have you always sat inside of your life? what would your mother say?