If you read this, Sister Kili, I hope you understand.
Even if no one else does, I think you will.
I am becoming.
Underneath the petri dish,
They pick and prod and gape
At my splayed organs,
Comparing and staring.
What to do with this throbbing, pulsing anomaly?
I am a threat to their notions of normality.
Don't they understand that becoming must hurt?
In a dream, the ghost of Newton said
There is nothing new under the sun.
No gris-gris in a golden-orange bottle
Can alter what the universe has prescribed.
Hubble's galaxies are creating room for me.
They await my arrival.
Underneath flourescent lights
My chrysalis is forming.
When next they peel these blankets back
This feathery, fluttering in my chest
Will unfold before them,
Pushing them away and drawing them in.
Until Ishvara's breath kisses me,
From this spent casing,
To the doorway of the unknown.
From there, the journey is mine to decide.