I long for things.

And longing, it’s contagious
It spreads to all those around you,
Until they, too,
Dream of houses larger,
Dream of cities bigger,
Long for lives vaster.
Happier.

And I’m willing to do anything
For that dream.

Maybe art is exposing my soul,
Leaving it raw and vulnerable under
The gazes of all those
Who wander in the museum of my
Heart.

Maybe art is an exercise in understanding,
Where we strain to make sense of
Darkness we’ve never seen the depths of,
Or light that we long to be warmed by
But can’t quite reach.

Maybe art is a meeting of kindred spirits;
An understanding that you were never alone,
Even when you were drowning and no one
Could hear you scream.
Far away, your words echoed, and in
The mind of another lost soul,
They found their place on the page.

They tell you, write it with emotion.
Write it like it’s a history you’ve seen -
Describe it in burning colors,
Making a tragedy of things unseen.

But then they criticize you, tell you
It’s too graphic - that there’s no way
That was your personal war.
They’d rather look away,
Than acknowledge that it was your everyday.

Some doors are meant to stay unopened,
Some questions left silent in the air,
Some chapters end without conclusion,
Some paths often lead to nowhere.

Not every story needs an ending,
Not every wound needs words to heal,
Not every heart requires mending,
Not every truth needs a big reveal.

There's wisdom in quietly leaving,
There’s grace in letting mysteries be,
There’s peace in simply believing
That what must flow will find the sea.

So loosen your grip on expectations,
Release the need to understand,
Accept the silent explanations,
Because it is not a part of your plan.

©️Lizzie Bevis

Can you see yourself
the way the mascara runs
the wings splayed out
like an angel
naked
pale
leaning into her own
dissolution.