Wisteria skies are on fire with the pretty pink and purple petals against the backdrop of red and orange sky-flames. Time shifts and rolling white foamy clouds fill a cold sky as hail and snow fall in disorderly ways. The warm liquid pours down my throat, leaving a burning sensation when all outside is freezing. My hand is held and I am wrapped in strong and safe arms. I just had the realization that the skies mirrored what I once called love.
Close each open space that you left open and conceal that which was exposed at one time or another. May the only parts that remain permeable be small and far between. Certainly try to remember where all the places that closed have been.
Your true color is dark gray, muddy, half devoid of substance as if it couldn’t be enough. Your halo is gray and tilted to one side and I saw cracks in your demeanor. For a while I looked at myself and saw some of you reflected as I slowly turned light gray from a pure white. Your color is dark gray, beautiful, but grimy and it brings me down and I wonder what it must feel like to carry that weight with you of pouring out uncontrollably as you hold on to fragments from when you fell to the floor and shattered. I am an act of self-love, in constant motion, and ever so willing to give the little pieces of light that I hold in my hands, but I can’t share that light if all you’ll do is obscure my path.
The fronds rustling in the chilled air and a wolf’s moon gently watches as I inhale and exhale smoke from within my soul and out towards the night sky. She looks down with her red face soon to be eclipsed and a secret nod occurs between us. She is a protector—moon goddess—and I am a loyal servant. In my sensuality I extol rituals in her name as invisible, glittering strings grow from within me and dissipate into energy like the smoke exiting my lungs. Each breath is an intention, each inhale is a collected pool of energy brought further in to my body. The moon wears a red veil and I am naked, barren without need for shrouds. No clouds exist between us now and soon we will become one.
Today I smiled at the thought of deserts consuming entire cities.
It’s not up to you to fix what you did not break. It’s not up to you to chase what does not want to be followed nor to lose your peace for those with no peace in their hearts.
What you’re meant to do is to live well and freely without shackles imposed on you by others. You are meant to cut the threads connecting their words to your head so that you may think truly without their hidden agendas influencing your actions.
You don’t deserve a half-baked innocence.
Asteroids are falling into my atmosphere, their burning traces, crystal prisms.
They dig deep into my chest, opening spaces where perhaps leaves will grow after we sow this burned soil.
Flutters of color like butterfly wings whispering pieces of song that sirens can nice upon a time would sing.
Maybe these leaves will be blown to the water when the gusts pick up as none of this matters.
From where enters your strength, your will to live? It reminded of how battered and bruised I have been. A memory of black clouds coming down onto me haunts my head and I had hoped that I had healed that trauma, but they asked me: where does that strength come from? There were no good answers to that question. Perhaps it was this ancestral DNA or my mother’s mitochondrial DNA that let me live though the struggle. How ungrateful I must seem, to have that survivor’s will and to hate the act of having to survive. She must look at me with disdain or maybe with pity at knowing that her scars are inscribed into my genetic makeup too.
Why have you stayed? I am asked this question, not in so many words. Sadly, no responses escape because I hold the gates tightly shut for fear of being seen as the fool. Who could have thought that this would be the woman striving to bear the fruits of my labor—so hindered by a simple soul?