twofold

Katlyn Furlong

I want to be transparent, I say—as light floods the room I used to call home—that’s the only way to make it real—to  take this body and turn it into crystalline water—so  that you can  see me so clearly—you can see yourself reflected back—perhaps the reason we fall in love is because we want to be seen— through eyes other than our own—so I stand still for you—but I only look like myself when I am running—away—like I am trying to escape this body—and these hips—and these collarbones—and these breasts—these things that make me feel like something I am not—I want to be fluid, I tell you as you pour a cup of coffee—you look at me through the little ribbons of steam—trying to escape the air—I say it again, louder—but language restrains me—as it does to anyone who’s ever believed in more—a week ago we were lying in the balmy sun—each of our bodies learning the weight of the other—you said we brought each other balance—but I want it on my own.