How small we are in the largeness of it all.
Our tiny cries barely heard over roaring humanity.
But we each have a sadness, each of us, true.
Of your sadness, I say: I hear it.
I see it, as clearly as I see you.
And you must know that in my ears
it is as loud as it always has been to you.
It is as loud as it needs to be for my heart
to mend it for you.
The darkness of life is a wonderful teacher.
I’ve been there a time or two,
and now I say, ‘no’.
Lovingly,
with fire and ice,
I say no.
No, thank you.
No. Thank you,
no more.
Such a lovely relief,
the roaring breath of certainty.
The trust of a self who deserves better
than they have given.
My worth is here to stay.
My love is mine to give,
not theirs to take, and take
and take.
Let others play in the dark rooms of maddening life.
Let this girl fly,
a darling wonder,
into the sun beyond it all.
Safe.
Loved.
And perfectly capable of asking for love,
respect
and home.
Home.
How beautiful it feels
to finally tell them I am home.
The wind will call and you will know.
And it won’t tell you why,
and it won’t tell you what
but you will follow
blindly,
hopefully,
until the sun peaks ’round the bend
and the horizon dazzles
in ways far beyond possible.
Indigo, apricot nights.
Warm breath on starlit cheeks.
And you will know
(oh, you will know)
what it was like
to have lived.
My heart is open and bare,
laid out before the world again.
Their pain is mine: I give it loving arms.
I speak their truth.
I burn with mine.
They say these are words, but I know they are more.
I call them life, achingly true.
Here I am, the softest rose: bruised but sweet.
And waiting.
An open bud, thirsty for the dew.
It’s who I am, the rose, I know.
What is this dew to fall on me?
Is it love? This feeling, deep and strong.
For a world that doesn’t know itself,
a world too scared to open its heart and see?
Do not tell me I overthink.
I feel
for you.
I feel.
For humanity.
Deep within my heart
there is a river, raging on.
And I ask this river to be careful.
‘I am fragile,’ I say, on the softest breath.
‘Sway me,
always,
never to rush me,
never demand.
Hold me carefully, river.
Hold me carefully,
I am not like the others
made of brick and bone
and steel.
I am only like I am.
I am only like I am.‘
The time for soft and quiet has come.
Rest.
Lay down the bones of sorrows past.
Yesterday is a hush,
no longer ringing her angry bell.
She knows it true.
The time for soft
and quiet
has come.
It is beautiful,
I think,
to be a very small thread
on the web of it all.
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.
What colour shall I paint my sky?
Soft-pink and grey:
clouds of spun sugar,
sweet dreams that drift me to life?
Bring me a cool breath of clarity.
Bring me a little light,
and I will shine it, wherever I may go.
Though the roads may crumble
and darken
and fade,
I will have my little light.
I will have my sweet dreamy sky.
It smells like a roast
but it feels like a story
of love,
of a garden,
and of home.
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