As a child, I had a pet crawfish.
It shared a tank with a painted
turtle, and most of the time
they got along fine. But every
so often, the crawfish would molt,
exiting its entire skin whole.
And while the turtle shredded
that hollow carcass, the crawfish
hid its vulnerable nakedness
beneath the rocks,
until its skin grew hard,
and thick, and new.
I realize now that this story
is about me and you. Me hiding
and rebirthing myself in secret,
over and over, while you attacked
my empty remains.
It doesn’t matter that
most of the time we got along fine.
What I needed was a place
where it was safe
for me to grow.
