The physical therapist lays her hand on
my belly just over my uterus and says,
“Oooooh, I see dragon fruit.”
It takes me a minute to realize she passed into the ethereal,
speaking in metaphors.
I’m like, “Um okay.”
She’s going on in a blissed-out voice 
about the beautiful color,
the spines, 
how exotic it is.

And I’m like, 
“What the...?”

Dragon fruit?
Psssht. 

I’ve never seen a dragon fruit in the flesh
and I don’t know how it could have any connection to me.
To plain, simple me.
The me who’s kept her colors hidden from the world, 
voice swallowed down my throat along with
the pointy edges of my desire.
Pressed all the way into the pit of my stomach. 
Me, who has an over-developed need to be liked,
to say the carefully composed sentence
so people think I’m smart.
The me who’s ready to throw 
punches at myself 
to keep from speaking any of this out loud. 

And these neglected parts of me have
twisted and turned under their own weight
taking whatever I was born with and 
knitting it into an ugly,
ill-fitting sweater,
that nobody wants to see brought out at holiday parties. 

But in the middle of the night
when I’m all alone,
the city darkness wrapped around me like a thin cotton sheet,
a faint pulse reverberates in my abdomen,
tiny wings trying to stretch, 
thump, thump, thumping against the shell.
Fuschia is the color of my dreams.
What if I could break free from this false prison,
give birth to this rhythm inside me?

But the sun comes up.
Colors fade to white.
My insides are quiet,
docile.

What if I stopped seeing the vibrance as stain, 
stopped hearing the percussion as noise?
What if I nurtured this kernel inside me, 
let it grow 
rather than snatching it out before it can sprout roots
as I’ve been schooled to do?

Dragon fruit. Ha.

Even as I think that
an almost imperceptible
beat flutters just below my navel 
neon blush bleeds in from the edges like
ink spilled on a white cotton blouse,
indelible. 

This time the thrumming refuses to silence as
the sun approaches its zenith. 
The richness of the hues seeps into my ordinary.

This, this is what’s inside me:
swathes of magenta 
penetrating splinters of chartreuse 
a fire-breathing raptor’s skeleton.

Dragon fruit, skin and flesh, saturated and juicy.

And it’s my choice:
wear the colors,
let the exterior design reflect the inner architecture
or drape the cloak over my shoulders
bow to mediocrity,
blend in and live
small.