I won’t even explain myself, I won’t even try. But we’ve brought ourselves back here loves and for that I am grateful.
I wonder how you all are doing and I know your wondering the same…
I can say I’m not great. My mental health has been all over the place, mercury is in retrograde, my senior year is impending and y’all i’s tired.
Tired from what though? I can’t be certain but writing this and ‘the ways of world’ seeps into my skin, my mind and my body. My being is tired holding tensions and past lives/loves, my eyes claiming witness to the stories I tell myself, the stories that manifest into bad self-talk that consumes my throat leaving a nice comforting itch.
My mind plays a memory, I begin to feel and then *click* the next memory starts, I haven’t recovered. I haven’t moooooved through it, haven’t jumped on top of it, screamed at it, called it something other than it’s name. I haven’t cried y’all. I haven’t made waterfalls out of my eyes that somehow build homes. My lights haven’t brightened, I see nothing but one inch in front of me and that’s barely in focus.
My body swells with fury and anger I force myself not to feel, of fear that my body stretches too much in that and won’t ever return. So I tie the rope tighter, I wrap more tape, more paper, more glue, more…everything. And still the anger oozes through, like thick honey coming out of a spout.
I wish I was honey, sweet and golden, moving through the sprout knowing that I was the honey… that’s smooth golden sweetness.
My heart, y’all my heart. Is a mess of 90’s love songs, daddy issues and a whole lot of trauma. But y’all it feels so good to feel a pulse, a beat, a moooooovement. To feel like my body is working, that that red thread holding me together is doing it’s job out of love and not obligation. That all the red threads in my body know their worth and never have to ask. Never question, never not feeling themselves because I have somehow overnight mastered the skill to make them feel appreciated to make them feeel good. Y’all I wish I was those red threads that my body strives off of.
My hands have gone rough, callused and uncomfortable. My skin itches, my hands rub together and well I could start a fire and if I did start that fire, reached my hand into the flame, Id feel nothing because my hands themselves have lost their gift, they cannot feel. Cannot not touch/love on/smooth over or squeeze they have become nothingness. They feel like stone, the dull of slate.
My eyes stay swollen from countless hours of crying and staring at a stranger in a mirror, a stranger on phone screen a stranger in the 3 hour old bath water I’ve made for myself, attempting to cleanse myself from any bad thought, unsettled image or sad love song. I dream about dying here about finding my doomsday, being swallowed by the water. With no hesitantations, I have no say. But the water heals me, makes me bear witness to it’s greatness and forces me to take that greatness with me. I ask, if nothing else to make this bath a womb. I pray to be reborn to be released to start again.
I’m sorry it has been so long, that I have not be able to face you in my heartache, in my fear and even in my happiness. I am sorry that I have not been able to make mountains move with a light that I once thought I was, I’m a little dirty a little scuffed. I need y’all, I promise that I do because with every like or view at least I know someone is watching, someone is reading… someone special.
I wish I believed in myself more.
I am reaching for a promise land that I can’t see haven’t imagined yet but in all of that y’all, I promise you I’m trying so hard to, rise.