The jagged red line above your cheeks is one of your more amazing parts.
I know this because of your penchant for frequently going pantless.
While you make toppings bars out of VHS cases or fight your sister for imaginary bracelets.
There is something in that red line—in its asymmetry—in the way it snakes and scissors.
In the way you’ll throttle me when you are old enough to comprehend I’ve written this.
Something in that angry red makes me see the way you are pieced together.
Sewn by someone like myself, an amateur with a too-big needle and cacophony of thread.
Somewhere in your seams, there is compromise and newborn, naked flexibility.
You scare me and wrestle my jaw to the floor with your infinity of tiny textiles.
(Later today, this may strike me as too personal for the site. And its completely unworkshopped. So it may come down later. Or I may revise it publicly. No thoughts on this yet. As always, thank you.)