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.
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.
Such a laboring thought, to know that all you can do is wait. It’s almost as if your chest were a wet towel wrung dry many times and now the threads are jagged and frayed. I’m looking forward to opening my hands and letting it all go.
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?
We build homes in places that we know will not last and then become shocked at the notion that the water will rise in and bloat everything within its walls. We build, knowing that the soil is easily prone to erosion, but we still believe that it will outlast any natural disaster. Yet, our homes come tumbling down as we struggle to hold it together with temporary fixes.
Still, we continue to build all the while ignoring the warnings nature throws at our faces as it tells us that the structure will not hold. We work diligently and keep insurance because somewhere within us we know the tragedy that will inevitably strike. Foolishly, we forget that insurance is never a solution to a problem that will cost more to us than the claim is valued for. We will eventually lose that house that we desperately wanted to raise. Maybe then we will realize that the cost of building on inhabitable land was too high for our optimistic minds.