01

Layer by layer,  I peel it all off
slow and sticky, until I’m standing alone
 in a pool of what once clothed me
 I look down and wonder to myself 
How can anything be left?

I close my eyes 
and I’m being held 
by a body of water 
neither warm nor cold 
neither sinking nor floating 
not above not below
and the gentle water
envelopes my face
softly kissing my cheeks

Notes:
Limbo. (noun)
“A place for unbaptized souls 
that are barred from heaven 
through no fault of their own.”



              02

Days later I am walking home
from work in the rain
tightly bound in my layers and
hidden from the harsh wind.
A weighty gust blows off my hood 
and I stop to look up at the cloudy sky
I’m lost so I close my eyes 
and wait until I feel the soft 
water kiss my skin


Notes:
Liminality. (noun)
“Often studied by Anthropologists,
It is a stage of life where an individual 
is not what they once were 
but also not yet what they will be.”
Derived from the Latin word līmen
meaning a threshold.


            03

Imagine this,
you’re five years old 
the kitchen table is old and made of wood
you’re coloring on a blank sheet of paper and
you pick up your crayon and examine your scribbles 
a smile stretches across your face
you believe this to be a work of art

Fast-forward and you’re thirty-something now
your mom no longer hangs your art up on the fridge
this makes sense to you because you no longer
 believe it to be a work of art either 
Where did I go?