untitled

i never knew the meaning of wrenching
until tonight, when my body tried
alone on the floor,
cold in the dark,
to make this thing stop being a part of me.

i never knew the meaning of wrenching
until tonight, when my mind dry-heaved
up from the trenches,
out from the crevices,
boiling rock and an avalanche of nothingness.

i had no idea the meaning of wrenching
until tonight, when my all of me shattered
so busy screaming
i forgot to look for pieces
and there's not a one to hold my hand.

forty-eight.

on my knees in a forest
that smells like rain
in the cool of the morning.
the dirt is wet under
my hands and i can smell
the leaves that have
been giving the rainwater
to the ground all night.
i thought i'd fallen asleep in
a desert, everything dry
and hurting, dry and aching,
dry and ready to give up.
i thought i'd fallen asleep alone
and i thought i was worth
something less for letting my
heart get tired, weary.
But this rain permeates all in
the forest i woke up to.
Each drop falls from the sky
and multiplies, bursting
into a nourishment that no other
cloud could provide,
soaking into every surface and
filling old cells, replenishing
old wineskins, renewing a dry and
tired heart. dig my fingers
into the fresh black earth, dirt
under my fingernails and
a smile on my face. there's no
need for tears when rain
like this cleans every part of me,
makes everything fresh
and fills up my heart like a puppy
drinking mama's milk.

forty-six.

hand on my heart and
you've got me one down.
i don't remember how
you made your way this
far into all i've become.
hand on my heart and
you're wound around me
like roots, around me like rope,
                around me like wind.
wound around my heart like fire
and i can't extract your
fingers from mine.
you are an intricate fiber
and you're strong like iron.
i know who i am and i
can live without you.
i can thrive without you
but you're such an
intricate fiber.
you give me room to grow
and your hand holds my
heart loosely,
asking quietly to be allowed
to maintain that
one privilege.
you have been fashioned
for a purpose that coincides
beautifully with mine,
but i won't call this
coincidence.

forty-five

there were letters and numbers and figures
drawings and tattered cloths
blueprints and fingerprints and prints of old film
there was dust and comfort and lukewarm tea in spotty mugs.
there were holes in the walls of her broken down office building
in a town that only exists
on one map.
the sun always shone through
and sometimes the snow blew in
but the old office papers were scattered perfectly
and the nook in the attic was enough for her.
the mattress was old and the blankets musty
red and black plaid from her grandma's basement
with holes in the middle and
raggedy on the edges.
there were globes and maps and travel booklets
pictures from foreign lands
portraits of strangers all over the walls
and inside her,
only desire.
to go, and to see, and to love.
to travel and wander and experience.
to taste, and know, and find, to search and to discover.
to hold and release.
to love with depth as well as breadth
and to fly with the wind at her back, in her hair, under her wings, inside her chest.

the colors are vibrant without you
and the dust will be breathtaking before you stir it.
but you will be a welcome fabric,
and you will cast a beautiful shadow.

thirty-seven

drag here
click there
push the button once
and twice.
history is deleted
and it's a part of
me i used to Respect.
but no more
no more.
no.
more.
because as i read
i see more than i want
to see.
i told you once
and i'll tell you again
i never, never, never measure up.
think what you
want
but the past
is a stitch-work of
scars, and no matter
how hard you try
to justify what
they look like from far
off, they're
still red and swollen.
tender and bruised
a type of skin
only made
to cover a broken
innocence.
i can't tell you
how many times
i've tried to paint
it over.
tried to seal it up.
tried to cover it with
a beautiful scarf or
make it tell
a different story.
if i play my cards right
you'll read the picture
and you'll tell me my
past and i can
Become
what you think of me.
then all these scars
will mean what
i want you to think they mean.
all the questions can
disappear
and all the hopes will look real.
and every time i ask
you who i am, i'll hear my truth.
condemning me.
restraining me.
pleading with me
to open these boxes
and let Him clean my wounds.
let Him heal. wipe away the
truth-picture that covers
the real-scars
and hand to Him my tired-heart,
wait to feel His true-love.
And be Myself again.

forty-three

standing alone
on the edge of the water
in the middle of the dark
on top of the moss and
under the stars.
There's a cancerous stone
growing in my chest
displacing my organs
making my heart
stretch and tear.
tight, it unfolds
and everything is tight.
it eats and everything is empty.
it rises and forces my
eyebrows together.
tears to form.
breathing to pain me.
it's heavy and it's hard and
i can't drop it or break it
or even allow it to pass.
my eyes are screwed shut
and my mouth does its best
not to open.
something is coming to save
me. someone is on their way.

hand, outstretched.
open and waiting.

i can hear you running
but i've heard that before
and i always just end up alone,
hands cold, eyes red and crusty, stars still shining.

this is the conquest you're called to.

sixteen

i had it.
i had it in my hand,
folded between my fingers.
lending me strength,
security.

our left hands, both
with rings.

there is orange on the walls.
dark orange, like it
got burnt.
the blanket on your lap
is soft.
probably one of those
microfiber deals you get at target
or walmart
in a bundle with a strap
around it.
my feet have pale cream colored
soft wool socks on them.
my sweats brush up against
long-unshaven legs.
we drink lukewarm-because-we-let-it-sit-too-long tea.

this
this all
feels natural.
feels welcome.
warm and safe.
i know where i am.

i am home.