"M," I'll say. "M, I write."

I know she'll give me that look that says 'you're being an idiot again,
aren't you?' but still,
she'll humour me. She'll ask, "Write what?"

My pulse will be pounding in my fingertips and my stomach will be doing its best
to jump ship entirely, but I'll (try to) ignore them both.
I'll take a deep breath.

"Poetry," I'll say. "I write poetry."

And that's it, really. I'll lay it all out in front of her. And maybe I'll still be
taking deep breaths and maybe I'll be possibly on the verge of
hyperventilating, but it'll be out there.
I'll lay everything I've never told her about
right there in front of her.

"You never told me," she'll say, "that you wrote."

I know there will be a slight pause; I know her well enough to know
she will pause. I just wish I knew what that pause contained.

I've had three sleepless nights of imagining her going
to my profile and reading everything I've ever posted. I imagine that
she'll start off with disbelief, and end with comprehension.
I imagine that she'll understand everything I ever thought
while writing, and some things I didn't, and that she'll see me.

Where I've written she, she will know instantly who she is.

(Sometimes, I don't even know who she is – sometimes, she is one;
sometimes, she is an amalgamation of many. Even so, she will know.
She will know something.)

Where I've written he, she will recognise in him the shadow
of some other male, real or imagined.

Where I've written me, she will carve a line down
between my ribs, pare my skin back.
She will wrench my truth-bones right out of my lie-sockets.

She's a doctor-to-be, you know.