If I am not her,
that good and lovely girl in a box,
who am I?
Now that this body is alive
with the energy of all of life,
who am I?
I believe this,
but I believe the opposite of this, too.
I love you desperately,
I hate you just as achingly.
Both can exist within, but how?
But how?
I am bursting fire,
I am calm ocean blue.
I do not understand, and I understand entirely.
For one small me,
these feelings are large.
Too large for me to carry
alone.
How lovely it is
to find home again.
In this home
I am what I am,
and what I am
is a river,
a rock,
a lion,
a ballerina.
What I am
is all I am.
All I am
is all there ever was.
All I am
is all
I am.
There is no feeling
quite like the delicious wholeness
of a lost girl
found once more.
There is no feeling quite like this.
I am all that I am,
and wherever I drift
on the wind of today
is as it should be,
is all that I am.
As it should be
is all that I am.
My body is alive
with the sound of night.
How I hunger for this bliss.
How the melody of a simple tune
makes love to my senses,
and I am whole
like the wind,
like the sun,
like love.
Am I a good
and proper
human.
Yes.
No.
Life.
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.
This little river.
This little boat.
I never could have imagined
this peaceful place
in the shade of Autumn
and her beautiful, falling colours.
Shall I meet you at the rivers edge?
Might we sit a while, watching the ducks
as they gather in hungry groups?
Or will we row on?
Searching the river for nothing
but sweet, silver ripples
to carry us safely
home.
I’m down in the depths of me, today.
It feels like sadness, but it is far more powerful than that.
This beautiful sadness.
It is a sadness I long for, a sadness I crave.
It flows through my veins until there is nowhere left for it to go but out.
Onto this page.
Into new hearts— yours, his, hers, theirs.
I was always told this bliss only lives in happiness.
But this is not happiness.
This is an ache.
This is the most beautiful ache of all.
I see you there,
squinting at the mirror
of not good enough.
And I wonder if you know
the beautiful creases on the face of you
make up the whole.
And you think,
somehow,
that you are flawed.
Because you have been angry?
Because you have been sad?
Because you have been confused,
or not there,
or completely off the path of ‘neat and tidy’ days.
You must know this.
You are as you should be.
Here, where the path is overgrown.
Where the light is brighter and the shadows darker.
You belong here. Perfectly imperfect.
Just as you were always meant to be:
whole.
