Cracked Photographs

I looked at our old pictures and nearly fell in love again,

A whirlwind of butterflies so bittersweet—oh the pain.

I guess all that I dreamt of was a waste and in vain.

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Morning Reverie

It is in the last falling drop of rain that I remember the reasons between transitions. The last few molecules are the ones that mix between the coolness of the water and the warmth of the sun finally starting to peek through the clouds. It is those dissipating pieces of fluff that connect you to the world above and that one below all within the layers of the atmosphere—so think…which route will you take?

 

Many of these moments are combined with tantalizing thoughts of what is and what has been, thoughts of what will be quietly hidden away in the breaths that I take. I find myself waiting for a lightning strike to shake me into action. I find myself seeking out fast-moving clouds in a late morning sky where all that you see is gray and movement even though you know the sun should have been visible by now. It is I who waits like the hydrated ground while the raindrops falling from the leaves gently pummel my surface like a persistent knock at my door—the truth is waiting to get in.

Broken Pottery

I almost lost these pages and for a second my heart felt like it would either stop or break through my chest. It’s in these pages that I heal. These are the reminders that the cracks within me are laced with gold like the ancient Japanese custom of taking what has been broken and making it better. In these words exist my soul and maybe they won’t last forever, but they sure do make me feel whole.

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I Needed the Light

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.

Enduring

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?

Sunken Benches

I sit next to the ocean that is reclaiming the land and the rain starts to sweep in between the mangroves and dead fish. Soaked pages take in the tears of the sky as if they’ve been parched for quite some time. The ocean and sky have reclaimed their original place on land and floating aimlessly– a red jacket. The dyed red leather is engorged with salt-water while crabs laugh at that foolish girl in tatters.