On my way to a far off village
I met a young woman,
With scars in her eyes and hands so old
Holding a precious clay vase.
She lived in a far away land of
Desert-like knowledge, and
Within that land were seven stories
Of three weeping children,
Each singing for each other's love
And the eternal peace of their mother.

Nurtured to be a woman
They say you should be modest.
"Hide yourself," they tell you,
"Cover your brain."

My mind is bursting at the seams.

I am no genius, that is certain.
Yet, I've carefully stepped behind
Others' shadowy minds
Enough to know it is
A waste of time.

So, I create my own shadow.
She is my own and only mine.

If I fall, will you catch and hold me tightly?
If I fall with nowhere to land and cannot spread my wings, can you take a moment to soften the world's edges and make space for me in your arms?

When you fall, I will hold you tightly with nothing but love.
When you fall, I will be there waiting to give you my hand and make space for you to heal when there is hardly any left.

When we stumble together, years from now, tracing the heartbeats and tracks of others so far ahead of us, I will guide you through the oceans and hold your heart closely to my own so you may never feel alone.
I hope you would do the same.

Sometimes you can
be so wrapped up
in writing things down in
a hurriedly explanation
that you forget
to breathe within the moment.

It's alright to pause.

It's okay to forget your pencil
and listen to the stars when
they ask you to slow down.

So, I paused.
And I heard wonderful things.

I discovered the sky is beautiful tonight.
More so that I could ever tell you through words.

So, please...  breathe.

I desperately want to fix people I relate to. I need fixing because I want to fix others.
I find myself mending my pieces together again, pulling a needle and thread through my flesh to make it last longer. I take pieces of myself that have been lost and glue them right back on in the wrong places. Glue only sticks for so long and thread eventually snaps.
I try to hide these stitches I’ve sewn. I’ve spent years covering them with thick layers of glossy paint. I use rich pigments of prussian blue, shiny yellow ochre, deep crimson, and lilac to distract you.
And it works.
Look at what I drowned myself in. Watch me pour the colors over my honest, weathered skin; over my nose and mouth where I breathe and speak. Don't look at me and the path I've detonated. Look at my mask instead.
I’ve been shattered before. With only the delicate touch of another human, I exploded. Sharp splinters of glass burst from within me and flew miles away when it happened. I need to fix myself before I can fix others, otherwise I’ll fix them broken like me.
But how can you expect me to pick up every shattered piece? I would much rather stay broken than collect myself and feel whole. Thanks, though.