The men I am comprised of might have gone to the sea, once. May have stayed in a motel for a weekend. Two single beds pushed together with the blinds drawn tight and the door deadbolted. They might have sat next to each other on the shore and, if they were brave, let their pinkie fingers brush against one another on the rocks. Would one have turned to the other, maybe with a passing thought or observation, and let their words dry up in their throat? Would he have traced the profile of his face, raked over it with his eyes, marked the beads of sweat at his hairline, ached to reach out and touch, touch anything other than empty space?

I’ve never been to the sea. My hands have never been held, are perhaps not made for holding. I push my bed against the wall, to make sure no one is behind me. I am made of these men despite being unrecognizable to them. They would see the planes of my body, too soft, too cratered, and laugh. See the length of my hair, the sway of my hips, and jeer. But I ache to touch like they do, to touch just like them. I am prisoner of this body. There is no beautiful way to say it.