What is the anatomy of my story?
What moments drape across my shoulders and interweave along my back allowing me to show up with my chest open and upright.
What lovers have aided in my asymmetry, pulling me to one side until I have done the work to loosen the tightness around those muscles.
What beliefs tug at my chest, drawing me inward upon myself. Which ones make me lithe, able to outrun the words that will keep me anchored to who I think I should to be.
If truth is buried within my bones, it makes no difference to the muscles and the tendons dictating my movement.
How deeply have I buried my own deservedness?
Love is akin to movement. It can’t be accessed sitting still. I must move into it. I must move like it. Persistently, passionately, patiently.
Maybe that is how I find home within the structure of this body. In the question of, how does love move? In the building of an anatomy around that answer.