What a wonderful word. In the tip of my tongue, in the beating of my heart, tangled between rows and rows of spider webs, of doubts and worried tossing and turning, sweet as honey and electric as thunder. Identity, I whisper when I write in kindness and softness, when I spin words in friendships and families, butterfly forehead kisses and warm hands holding. Identity, the soft red lump beneath my ribcage twists as I draw in purple and black and grey and white. I belong, I whisper at the stars. I feel, I kiss the moon. I dream, I run in the woods. Identity, I write, and draw, and play, and create, and love. Identity, I scream as I join the noble huntresses. What a wonderful kind of wholeness.