Today

I wrote something new

but then ripped it in half,

tried writing again

but I couldn’t go back

to the feeling that lied

on the black and white lies,

the feeling that lied

on my ribcage inside.

 

I wrote something new

but realized it old,

the same words from past years

of rhythm and coldness

and nonsense of

missing and reminiscing

and limbo and fishing

for something new to write.

 

I wrote circles around this,

tried to get past this,

found it awful to carve it down,

carve it outside me.

like dragging old bones

and expecting them to walk,

waiting for time to work

and light to search–

 

And so I stopped writing.

 

To pull away for a moment,

to stop digging and picking

and to let the light grow

was needed.

there was the winter and rest,

the killing snow and rain

for replenishing, healing,

and washing away.

 

So no more empty words,

no more torture of ruminating to

illuminate something in darkness.

there is just today,

with a clean page

and a fresh start

to write with boldness

concerning the truth.

Healing

And when I was sitting at a dinner table

surrounded with family,

and we were holding our sides

we were laughing so hard,

and it was eyes closed and smiling

and leaning over the edge of our seats laughing,

it was then that I knew.

 

I was finally happy.

I was finally new.

-July 2017

This is You

It didn’t show,

but the last time you were here

was like a thunderstorm–

and life was much kinder to you then.

 

But this time, it’s sunshine.

And rocket-ships of joy.

They flood the sky in streams of fireworks and stars,

making all shadows vain.

 

Because how much brighter can the sky get?

And here you are, thriving in it.

Resilient no. 2

But then the tightness begins to loosen

with every day, subtly. Slowly.

A smile becomes fuller,

for all types of love

come and fill my heart again:

My grandmother, a good run.

The ocean, my happy cousins.

With each new day and sun

I begin to forget.

And the idea of forgetting 

isn’t sad anymore.

Because knowing that this thing finally 

gets shined on, burns, and dies,

renews and grows

and you survive

is enough.

Resilient no. 1

It gets easier.

The days grow slowly

from their shadows

and light begins to

touch your heart again.

The flowers spring

beneath your feet,

and instead of wondering

why you weren’t enough,

you begin to realize

that you are more

than how the darkness

made you feel.

You are brighter,

sturdier, more human.

You can choose,

and you choose light,

for you are as beautiful as the moon

reflecting the sun,

shining.

Even in the darkness.

Resilient.