poem made from bits of my blog

I smile, uncrossing
my legs and rising from the
confines of the shell.
Is it the woman
or the little girl in me
that thrives on secrets?
Whichever, I can
be a pearl. Nascent, oily.
A bead, a twin yolk.

Once I peered through the
red haze of the womb and saw
her: naive, no doubt
thought she was alone.
She had settled in,
filled the place with light
that made the dark seem even
darker. I snuck in.
I had a blue print
so I knew her home even
better than she did.
The shell was alarmed
but trust dulled it and now we
coexist. You might
call us sororal,
possessing the same lustre.

Even when you are
born and I am not, because
I am too late, too
imperfect, too ambitious,
meant for other things,
you will wonder what
it is that still haunts the shell.
I was the blemish.
Spat out in secret
coated in glittery shame,
I was not so rare.

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