by Hadley Dion
On becoming a parade float
What would it feel like
to live like he had never touched you?
To live like he had never lived at all?
To reclaim your body,
parade it through the streets,
a float of resistance.
Bedazzled and bouqueted.
Smelling of citrus pith, honeyed gentians,
smelling of bittersweet victory.
To love yourself in the face of judgment.
To turn every corner without fear.
Knowing enough people loved you
enough to volunteer,
to plant flowers in all the places you thought were scarred.
What is it like to be the talk of the town?
To have every eye on you and in all this celebration,
in all this confetti gloried openness,
what would it feel like to know
you are finally safe out on the street.