There's something about walking away... Head held high and you sigh as your tears have been dried and the colourful in your cheeks and lips gets pinker. Nobody could have told you what to do because they aren't you. And what once felt so right and perfect now is clearer and less of a blur. If you had kept going the picture would only have been a smudge on the wall of your room, causing the drywall to crack and then grey. It's the colour of those hours blocked out to exert energy then crash as if you've just had the emotions ****** out of your fingers and toes. Maybe it would have been remedied with some growing or a little water and sun. But boys need more than water and sun to bloom. The soil was just too authoritarian and your wise words were in a language all to unfamiliar and confusing to decode. But for him, nothing could be done if it wasn't for him. So you kiss that hand goodbye and simultaneously let go as it is ****** away. And as you are walking away, you are walking into a cool breeze and a sunny day with a brisk sun and soft grass and happy voices ready to welcome you in the distance. And it is less walking away than walking to something brand new. You're being welcomed.

It's so old, and the beauty of a hundred years of happy memories and lives lived to the fullest is seeped into the dark and creaking wood beams of this home. In the fireplace crackles a soft warmth that keeps the bitter cold at bay from this room. Sometimes, it still tickles your nose and playfully pinches your ears, painting pink across your cheeks. But this is the only gentle reminder that outside the frosted window, snowflakes fall in soft piles against your doorstep, dancing and singing in their own special winter way. Inside is only merriment, where the wine is poured and the stuffed mushrooms are devoured slowly and languidly, each bite tasting of a melody. Around you on the walls, painted flowers and snapshot memories smile down on you as your friends laugh and sing and dance and break out the fiddle for a folk tune. After the wine comes the coffee where your hand gently holds a saucer and the cup almost never leaves your mouth. Everywhere you look, there is a joyous friendly face with a contentment of time about them, not anxious of a thing. Furry friends circle the floor in search of scraps, which they were given in a moment of weakness. And as you feel the warmth begin in your toes in your socks on the creaking wooden floor, as it travels up your spine and into your head and fingers, you know this is where you are meant to be. Here, surrounded by friends, with love draping his arm peacefully about your waist and laughing along with the rest, only every once in a while glancing over with a look that you know is meant to assure you, "Someday, this will be all we get, and it will be enough."

Some times you just feel so happy that it's as if your heart could burst:
Like when you laughed and talked and danced and sang with your friends who meant so much to you and loved you so much, and the lights twinkled and the cold air lifted your hair off your rosy cheeks. And you all leaned in and whispered and grinned and spoke of wonderful things that lit up your heart like a fireplace on a snowy night. And then you were swept up into that one most special hug, feeling warm and tight and safe and soft. That hug could have lasted a thousand years and still would never have been enough. As he put you down, you gently kissed his cheek, just so he would know how much he meant to you.

Sometimes you just feel so loved that it's as if the world could never seem cruel:
Like when you sat in the warm serenity of the Taizé community's embrace, holding your candle and singing and lifting the songs of hundreds of reverent minds and eyes up to God in thankfulness and wonder at all you have been given. And as the tears rolled down your cheeks and the sweet songs filled your lungs like breath, you were drawn into the warm and steady arms of your friends who were also crying and breathing the music of believers. And you all smiled and wiped away tears because the beauty of knowing you are truly and most purely loved is such an overwhelming feeling that one could hardly describe it in any way other than real beauty being felt in person.

How can I explain to you
What is within me?
I am African
I am American
I am both
And I am neither
I am something
And I am nothing
And yet…I am everything.
But I cannot be like you
Trust me.
I’ve tried.
You say “Welcome back”
Like my roots are in this soil
But how can I explain to you?
Yes.
My body originated here.
But not my soul.
No.
My soul was born in the arms of Mama Africa
She is not the ancestor of my skin
But of my spirit
And my roots run deep in her red earth
Her drumbeat, my hear.
Yet here I am…
I look like you.
I sound like you.
But I am not like you.
And when I try to explain
What I’ve seen
And done
And known
And how I became
You feel as though I am big
And you are not.
But it isn’t true.
I am not bigger.
You are not smaller
We are just…different.
I contain a vastness
That is misunderstood
That vastness holds so much
Yet often feels so empty.
And I cannot be like you.
Trust me.
I’ve tried.
But when I do it feels like chains
Shackles of iron
I try to deepen my roots
For you.
But when I try
I can only seem to spread my wings
And I am sorry.
I am sorry that I cannot make my home in you.
I am sorry that I make you feel small.
I do not mean to.
I am sorry I cannot find the words to explain
What it is like
To feel as though your skin is too tight for your soul
To feel as though you are always
Nowhere and Everywhere
Nothing and Everything
No one and Everyone
Too much…and never enough
I am sorry.
But I am trying.
So when I try…
When I share with you these tangled feelings
When I crack open the door
To the whirlwind within
Do not ask me to shut it.
Please, do not ask me to hide away
Because you cannot relate to the chaos behind my eyes.
Don’t see the mess.
See me.
And love me.
For the mystery that I am.
To you.
And to myself.

a girl who reads her bible is a *****. a ******. a snitch. a snob. a religious freak. she will follow you around and exorcise and speak of heaven and hell until you lift your bottle and drink to that lunatic. you claim spirituality instead of religion and say you're buddhist and you meditate and do yoga and save the trees and marine life. you make up your own rules so that you can have fun and feel moral at the same time. then you slip up and change your rules and when people ask you simply say you are searching. you don't know what you are but you know what everyone else is. and those people who have it all figured out with their books and doctrines and churches and institutions and traditions. they are the ones who are fake. they follow a patten that has been meaningless since the fourth century of its practice. the repetition renders its worshippers numb and everyone just sulks through the service to save their soul.

but you. you are wrong.

let me paint you a picture.

a woman has been accused her whole life of being too religious. too stiff. she falls down a dark path that nobody, even the immoral, condones. she is lost and she stumbles and falls and wakes up not knowing what happened the night before. but under the painted and gilded ceilings of a cathedral she finds peace. she finds comfort. she feels the arms of God around her and he is the only one who has ever loved her enough to embrace her. he, who everyone considers the elitist, has accepted this girl who is globally considered the **** of the earth. to him she is a diamond. a story. a soul. a set of memories and words and pictures and a lifetime's worth of emotions and pain and joy.

so next time you see that religious freak walking around holding her head up. you think again. examine the shoulders set back and unwavering gaze. she asks you to listen to what she says. not because she thinks she is right and you are a sinner. she is trying to share with you. her art. her salvation. the thing that has saved her and been beautiful and gave her hope again. it is her child, her garden, her masterpiece. it is her religion. and she does not treasure it simply to convert you.

are we kidding ourselves? to think that one last chance, dance, prance in the moonlight is worth all the pain that comes. our crying eyes caught in the glow of our sad boxes which keep us linked every moment of the day. you who pulled aside the curtain on love and i who gave you every last sparkle i had. i needed to be held but you only held onto me while i fought my own battles. then the battle i ran off to fight on my own was too much. i never left you i let you walk. but you left me in the  dust. robbed my chances after hanging on too long. but it wasn't just you i never tried to escape.