[part of "the story..."]

She speaks me round, purple,
softening the sharp edges of my name,
like she knows how to fit into my spaces.
fill me in like iridescence,
shimmer off my surfaces, to
make the picture whole. you beautiful painter,

my name does not match my person,
and those who speak it best
are the ones who can make it come the closest.


they pull threads of my being
and weave them with their own voices,
bring us together and becoming in the creation of my name
one, more like one.
they know me. they see my whole
and help me fray pleasantly without falling apart.