If I cut a hole in my chest,
An assertion on penance
An exchange of due harm
To restore in confidence,
Of prior wounds and consequence

An authority in letting, an opening
A centimetre wide and two down
Would the words bead out and dribble down?

A hole in my chest
A sliver, just a patch
Messes of half torn and clotted flesh

The pause
The beading rush of startle
The streaming of hidden blue rivers,
Blushing red,
The flushing embarrassment of first sight
Exposed

Caught in the confusion of
The staggering gasp
The first breath of menthol freedom

Hope that with each word,
Chained to venison canvas,
A venesection, a confession
An alphabet of suture thread

A letter, a symbol, stretching across
My body is knitting itself back together
Refusing to relent to any dehiscence
Constantly growing with the steady scribble
The military march of beating heart and breathing.

  • Laur (they/them) has spent the last eighteen years existing. Only since moving to Montreal two years ago did they start living, and as a by-product, coming out. Coming out as queer and non-binary to their family wasn’t the easiest way to go about, but it was the only way to start living as themself: without conditions and without exceptions.

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