I hold my breath trying to square my body around the walnuts of my experience. Trying to turn these bendable, splendid, limbs and cores into the static and strict nutcracker my elders have taught me to assume. Angela, you cannot put your hair into a bun with only three pins, she said as she grabbed me by my ponytail and dragged into the center of the studio. My 9-year-old classmates giggled and I again twistedly return into tension.

I breath in and out, allowing myself all the time in the world, to sit in my experiences. Uncover narrative from the books i’ve assembled on the shelf of my so called life so I can marinate in the truth of this momment, which is always changing. It’s hard enough to understand a single moment in time, impossible even. How are we so audacious as to think we can string each infinite moment together to form a story? How do we patiently sit at our desks and color in the cover of our books, when really each time we look back out our paper the lines we’re meant to color in have changed shape, we’re just too scared too color outside the lines.

I blow my breath into your mouth, checking for signs of love. I’ve given you at least 5 good compressions at this point and although we’ve all been told that humans have an instinctual will to survive, I’m doubting whether or not you see loving me as living. I would just walk away, but we talked about this before you purposefully swallowed that walnut whole, and I remember you saying you were interested. Maybe I’m remembering it wrong, how long have I been here, bent on my knees staring into your face?