She

by Natalie Robin

How does one have the stuff inside of them to constantly be fleshing out particular moments of their lives? Does emotion have a say in how much or how little it wants you to speak of it? What is the difference between the sadness that cramps and the kind that motivates? Why do I feel as if there is this other, rebellious self in me for which I am only a vehicle? Deflected; by the supremacy of this stronger self and her leathery sinews that exist around the lesser-self that comprise my tired muscle and bone, but most importantly — which one of these selves, owns the billowy mass in my chest that I suspiciously call my heart?

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