Starfish

Have you ever plucked a starfish from its home?

Ran your fingers down her spine?

Did you flip her over and trace her underbelly?

Pink and soft and safe before you?

How long before you tossed her aside?

She drowned you know

The feel of your skin still on her’s

Not enough oxygen

Or maybe it was the stress

Or the pressure 

Of bending and moving and moulding 

To be what you wanted for a minute or two

It didn’t matter that I had eyes at the tips of my limbs

Or that my instincts warned 

the sea was too shallow where we stood

I still rearranged my insides to make room for you

Stared up at the ceiling of your shitty bedroom

Still damp

Next to the sound of your full exhale

Betraying the notion you weren’t satisfied

I haven’t thought of you in years

The parts of me you split long sealed

But there you were over a decade later

Sitting across the room

“Nah I didn’t call her back, she was a starfish”

A chorus of laughter

Offered you affirmation

Women taught to absorb

And men taught to erupt

Where was your starfish then?

Was she choking for air like I did

Wondering if her body would grow back

Stronger, sharper, more alert?

Or was she already calcified at the shoreline

Being plucked by someone else?