Forget. Remember. Repeat.

A constant stream of forgetting.
Then remembering.

Clothed, I bear the shape of a woman.
Naked, a prepubescent girl, my chest a battlefield of scars.

The factitious swell of breasts deceives strangers, tricks my mind.
Then a stab of pain, like a lightening bolt through the space were a nipple once lay, shatters the illusion.

My child, feverish and in need of comfort,goes to rest his head upon my chest. He stops as he remembers, and places a cushion where my breasts should be and lays down his head to rest.

I remember how, in the before time, an infant grew, nourished by the magic manna that my body made.

A lovers embrace isn't as easy as it once was. He stumbles, conscious of not wanting to hurt scars that are numb. I'm still learning how to move in this altered body of mine. In the heat of passion I forget. Then remember, as my lover's thumb traces the scars.

A constant stream of forgetting. Then remembering.

I wonder when, or even if, the remembering and  forgetting ever moves into acceptance.