I have an strange, still unfolding relationship with the concept of having a body. With needing to take ownership of something I don't understand or what it's made of or why it's mine.

This song is proof of residency.

I feel the strings inside my shoulders pulling up when I want to sink pulling forward when I want to stop the tension I carry in my teeth

grinding all the way down my spine into the hips where everything locks a rusted hinge that still swings open because it doesn't know how to stop

and for the moment the puppet and the hand fashioned together from patches and strands are made soft and strange, and somehow, absurd and alive

I feel the fist inside me uncurling pressing out when I want to hide pressing open, holding shut even when the stitching is tight

splitting all the way through the fabric until the plastic begins to warp a buckled thing that still holds tight a pulse in my cotton core

and for a moment the script and the voice threaded together from chance and choice are made loud and whole, and somehow, grotesquely mine

But I can dance But I can perform the same routine with shaky hands no matter how frayed and worn

But I can sing I can go easy Until my strings go slack and the audience no longer sees me