the changeling

my soul is not
made of air
she is no ghost
no
figment
she is part liquid
plasma-like and
glowing
like a jellyfish
but
begging to be touched...

she is floating
shining and cozy in dark womb waters
drifting
caught between freedom and form

stretched wide at the crux of metamorphosis
pulled toward rebirth in two directions
laid bare and exposed
she gives up her water to the air
pressed in on herself
she relinquishes it to the earth

she is snake
and bird
sun and moon
fire and water and earth and ether

she is an original
existed before the number
'2'

sometimes wishes to fit in
and enjoy the confusing illusion
but
she must stay as she is
without her there is no catalyst
no connection
no constant

she must remain
forever
a changeling