I open my mouth
but it’s my mom’s voice that leaks out,
soft but sharp,
words she’s said again and again.
I climb my DNA like a ladder into my voice box,
twisting along the spine of my genetic makeup.
Christ, I’m becoming my mother.
I try to
unravel myself from my navel.
My complexities are worn fashionably like a fall line
by thin girls
with edges to their bodies
and edges to their minds.
They are beautiful laid out as sculpture
but up close,
there are always cracks.
I am starting to find comfort
in my knowing that
there is no such thing as losing yourself.
Some of us simply branch out
in either direction through greater space,
shape shifting as we go,
method acting our way through life.
I adopted change as my religion
the day I found my inner caterpillar
speaking for my butterfly.
You can not contain such a character long enough for conversation.
They will always come looking for the luck of the draw,
so I have
The psychology of my sins have made me closer to whole.
I know myself better
for I dared
to feel my way through these shadows.
The pattern of decision is so enormous.
Every yes is carved into me,
Every no is carved out of me.
I shake my head
and wear my story
like lingerie, like lace.
It is the holes in our story, sometimes,
that make it.
And those searching for another half
never truly find someone to scale.
I believe in love because I have loved and I have failed.
What’s half of you
could be just an inch of me,
so much life experience
would be a tragedy.
I am as much masterpiece
as I am mundane-
I can promise to weave myself next to you
and only looking back will we know that-
if we were not one other’s delicate fabric,
we were a necessary gap.
i make choices and i live with them and i do what i do
i feel bad for anyone trying to twist the knife in me
because she was more magical than you and never even came to be
every time someone makes me feel something good, bad, in between- thank you
I file it away and use it on stage, on paper, into the mic, in the studio.
I use everything. It’s all around me.
my guard is up because I’m devilishly trying to stay angelic
and I drink each wave of pain and bottle it’s remnants as relics
you know I’m a person too
and you might not like something I wore or said or did or even decisions I’ve made and how I choose to live my life
but I’m a person too
and I feel rollercoaster highs and I smile with my friends and I make mistakes that I’m learning from and I have things I’m endlessly passionate about and foods I can’t stand and movies I can’t sit through and I feel pain and I over think and I bleed if you cut me, bruise if you hit me, cry at night when you bombard me with questions that pry tastelessly into the parts of my body that still feel stained with memorial service
keep throwing shade. my heart is fair and could use a break from the sun
Anonymous said: Tell us where you are on your spirit journey. Where has it taken you, where do you think it will take you?
My spirit is in a cocoon.
I am patiently evolving. I will see the bigger picture after knowing the beauty and pain of the up close.
Because you were only ever mere pixels
on my movie theatre screen of a life,
I have no choice but to envision you glamorously-
I imagine that your voice
would hang neatly at the back of your throat,
a womanhood with a wardrobe of words
to outfit you
that you’d never outgrow.
I would have heard the giant wrinkles
in the fabric of your small disappointments-
I would have rejoiced with the steam
trembling over the cloth of all you’d conquer
on those weeknights
over the phone
when you’d call me by my first name
and I’d love you like I was always young
and like mistakes were always sewn
with designer lessons in their tags
as we’d be in stitches
over the seamless laugh
we both inherited from the greatest
Russian doll preceding us.
I would have
sacrificed my own elasticity
to hold you so tightly.
But when I fell with you,
I wintered you
and in our desperate attempt
to freeze our youth
we imagined we couldn’t feel the cold.
I was so naive
that even writing this
I feel more sister
You will always be my memoir.
You will always be the page between
Part 1 and Part 2-
You will always be that last line in that first poem
that I stayed up late into the night to finish,
an Olympian of run on sentences whose lungs burned
me into a steadily paced walk,
whose story began in imaginary ink that
only me and the screens and the screams could read,
the last sentence in that poem I so badly wanted to finish but never g-
I need friends who will play building blocks with my bones and sculpt universes from my skin-
until I let the good stuff balance out all the bad stuff I’ve let in
witch hazel thank you so much