Sometimes
I feel five.
Like the world is big
and I am small.
And there are kids all around
bigger than me,
louder,
scarier,
bolder than this softness
that folds me
like tissue.
(No one else folds like tissue.
Just me.)
The softness of me at five
lingers;
a scent
(like lavender)
on the breeze
of my soul.
The softness of me.
The softness of me.
Today, I begin the school of life again.
I hold my own hand, soft and unsure, as I stand at the gates of the unknown.
I am afraid.
I am also deep within the stillness of unafraid—
the beautiful tendril in the clouds,
the sweet surrender of a long resisted kiss.
I am the quiet that takes each step with me.
I am the longing I leave at the gate.
I am the breath this new life fills me with.
I am
all that I am,
and always will be.
Slinking down alleyways,
thrilled by the rippling dark.
Black
upon white, cold
stone.
Daisies tilt their heads:
smile.
Axes bite into crimson bone,
dwelling in the corners
of the corners.
Pure.
Devilish.
A curious mix.
Grace breathes life
into fire.
Life breathes fire
into grace.
