You were small.
          You barely passed the tests to become a                          marine but you refused to fail.
When the second generation of the SEP was announced, you didnât hesitate.
                               One of eighty people. One of ten women.
You failed nearly everything they threw at the candidates.
                        Physicality, tactics.                        (and you felt so weak)
But you were accepted anyway.
                          Heart, they said.
                                             And your genetics.
Wires and tubes and leads run in and out of you.                   Thereâs an oxygen tube running through the bit they put in                                      your mouth.
Breathe.
                           Donât resist.
                                                         Donât -
 You feel like youâre being torn inside out with every new chemical cocktail they give you.
                          Youâre a wreck.                          You feel like dying.                            (But you donât)
                                            One of eighty, one of ten.
One of forty-five, one of two.
               But you arenât the smallest, the weakest, not anymore.
   You stare at your new form in the mirror, a foreign body with your face.
                      You feel unstoppable.
