Butterfly Wings

When I wake up from surgery, I tell my mother three things. I tell her I can breathe. I tell her you need to read that poem to me right now- the one about gratitude and the turtle and, I tell her, you need to text her that I miss her and I’m so happy. I pause briefly and share that I, in addition to those three things, want a bagel and need to pee.

Healing, counting milliliters of blood that come out of my chest. Holding my chest so I can hug you. 

Before my showers, I run my hands over the lacerations, splitting my torso in half, dividing me into before and after. Before I shower, I imagine kissing you, and holding you all the way to my chest. Kissing you, and having nothing in between us.

That week, that first week after, it was only bouts of sleep and texting you. It was only heavy dense rest, weighty with oxycodone, and texts to you, not all the way coherent but all the way obsessed.

I would wake up and text you only one word. 

Kiss.

As hello. As goodbye. As I miss you. 

Like a prayer, or a mindreader, or maybe just like the girl I'm in love with, you always answered what it was. You always said ‘Yes, Hello. Kiss.’ or ‘yes, I love you too. KissKiss.”

And in my heavy, foggy sleep, I always loved you too. The nights you stayed, when I would wake up because I couldn't sleep on my back, couldn't sleep in my parents house. I’d roll over into you, and you would feel my new, flat chest as we went back to sleep.

When you left, 3am, 4am, you leant over to give me a kiss. Some nights I was asleep, and other nights pretending to be, but your lips always found mine. You, driving 30 minutes home in the dark, down that long road that curves all the way around our city. You, falling asleep next to me, disregarding the tubes coming out of my chest.

We didn’t disagree on many things. Just that I, who thought myself broken, flawed and sick. I, who spent good rent money on my chest. I, who missed a week of classes, two weeks of work, made countries, homes, and people off limits to us, simply because of what I am. I felt sorry. I sometimes still do. You never did.

It has been two months now. You have held me and seen me in all the shirts I always dreamt about. I can move again, and lift, and dance with you. I can wash my hair, and type out more than one word. And, I can breathe. Mostly, I have forgotten what recovery was like. Mostly, it is wildly unimportant now.

But parts of it are not. You, leaning down to kiss me, your skin light with mountain air, my body heavy with drugs and sleep. You, kissing me once, solemnly, for goodbye, and once, giggling, because of the faces I make in my sleep, and how I always reach towards you as you leave, even in my sleep. And you, outlined by golden kitchen light, standing in my doorjam, gathering your things and leaning down to kiss me. Your kisses, something bigger than a kiss, something sweeter than young love. 

I rushed to heal, embarrassed of my fallible body. You waited, tending to me, and kissing me goodnight.

I thought my wings were broken, but you knew them to be only wet. 

I thought myself to be broken, but you knew me to be only queer.

You, my angel of the beigey kitchen glow, my saint of soft kisses on my flushed cheeks, so sweet I cannot bear to open my heavy eyes.

You were right. My wings were only wet. 

Caroline James Emerson Branch is an author and creative from Northern Nevada, often writing on love, transition, and becoming in the wild west. They pursue publications of all sorts, but often gravitate towards smaller queer publications, where they feel more loved and seen by the community that receives them.

Instagram: @Cj.media.00