I admit it was never the cats. And I’ve only been part of a gang of humans protesting body’s rights, but never part of a gang that initiates through bartered bruises. I admit it had nothing to do with the boy. Or the girl. Or that time that time. I can’t tell you who taught me, but I promise I never instructed another. I admit I’ve done it since the first time and I’d be lying if I told you there is a last time.
I admit this is not my real hair color. But what is really real on bodies?
I admit that I finally believe that the word love is not a noun or a verb. It is too bold to be a part of speech; it is the whole thing.
I admit that I sometimes write in library books because I have a difficult time not getting involved with words.
I admit I lie about my weight. And sometimes my age. And the strength of my wrists.
I admit I hold deep conversations with myself in the bathroom. And when I walk toward and away from places.
I admit I am difficult to learn. How could anyone possibly get in if I barely have entrance.
I admit I never really forgave you.
I admit that the most beautiful sight I have ever seen is the moon on a Friday after that evening nap and the moon when it still exists in the sky during early morning and the moon on Wednesdays when it is at its fullest figure and the moon when it reminds me of the fingernail I have torn off, which dangles between my teeth.