Kylie Commons

There is an absence in my chest,
by my heart,
in my core—
a missing part
that has crystallized into its place.
That absence,
meshed into my body, changed,
is now a mechanic.
When I grieve I love, when I love I grieve,
I am inverted, invert my body
so my chest is opened
and the absence meets the air,
already, each property would match,
too much the same to even be a pair.
Already one.

Invert me.
Fold me into a thin line,
so thin it would not disturb the rays of a light.
Notice how I find
space between the air?
Notice how I try and fill the world,
each attempt proving I am not there?

Is all my shape

just around this

adaptation?

Each future's scape

shaped by this

evolution?

Fill me. I am grasping

at some semblance

of purpose.

If everyone had stayed in place,

would I now hold the shape

of a real person?