Dear Sister,
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve forgotten how to write.
Because my fingers are having a hard time drawing letters they have always traced, scribbling words they were once incapable of misspelling, creating literature they could never question.
But I realize that this isn’t the first time
this tongue has felt so foreign.
That my struggle with poetry and prose
is perpetual. It is a reoccurring theme in the nightmare
that can be my creative expression,
and it always stems from moments of significant change:
I am becoming a new me.
I can sense her
infiltrating my bloodstream,
possessing my mind,
overtaking my limbs.
I am being rewired and reconstructed.
Because, you see,
I am standing at the edge,
applying the finishing touches of a final chapter,
sketching the inception of a brand new novel.
I am inside my body
and I can feel
that she is morphing
into the girl
that will become
Sincerely Yours,
The Vertiginous Wallflower
sisters of diaspora 