i'm writing this because i would like to have a
better answer when i'm asked,
"why did you do that to yourself?"

because i was learning, because i was small
because i tried to do too much on my own.
i didn't know what a mistake was,
and i didn't know they were okay

i did that to myself because i wasn't sure who i was,
but i didn't like her.
(do you like to hurt, i do, i do, hurt me)
i did that to myself because i was cold and hurting,
i wanted love but i was empty--
i broke myself down into a shell, battered and lonely
and waiting for someone who would never come back

i prayed for poison oak, stitches and drug overdoses
i wanted to die from the inside out, i wanted to
do it myself
and maybe someone would realize how sorry i was

when i was one and fourteen
i knew a woman whose soft hands could make colors fly
wherever she told them to,
covering canvasses and fluttering into human hearts with a
puff
of breath.
a woman of Hope, a woman of Pocatello--
her spine was the trunk of a tree, her mind abundant with fruit
she told me about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
she told me to show up, pay attention, tell my truth,
and not be attached to the outcome--
but i was, so much.

i am one and seventeen
i am a woman with soft hands, i speak to colors and make them fly:
they cover canvasses, bodies, and hearts.
a woman of Campbell, a woman of Heron--
i press my back against trees and imagine what it would be like
to have one for a spine.
i know about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
i know that i spent years trying to cling
to the slippery, slimy, gelatinous blob that is the future--
it sure is beautiful from a distance.