It’s hard being intersectional. Sections

of my torso rise and fall. Lungs, stomach,

the marrow of a ribcage.

I have always been bound by my long hair, twisted up and choked by it; still always saying it’s the one thing I have left, meaning it more than my throat could ever muster. I relished the way the ends dug into my skin—the chokehold of it—take it away and you take away everything.