He said you have that talent and that baby and you wear it so beautifully. Eloquently, like none of their harsh words ever mattered, like you didn’t scrub away your finger prints wiping off the excess opinions.
Like you weren’t ever crucified for your weight and how you chose to carry it or sit it down when you got weary. Like loneliness was never a cloak you cradled with you. Like quiet was your nature and loud was your opening act. Like people weren’t diving in to receive more and leave you less. Girl, you have that talent and that baby and you wear it so beautifully.

Writing is unpacking, it’s unloading the freeloaders opinions & wiping slates clean.
Writing is packing, it’s loading up the freeloaders opinions & keeping score.

A narcissistic paradise, ink, pencil, pen, choose your weapon.

Mom, such a foreign word
I have one, I know one, I am one
And yet I haven’t begun to understand the meaning

“A burden of joy”
A joy so heavy you have to feel it
Hold it in your arms
Cradle it to your chest
Rock it steadfast to sleep

I don’t feel beautiful. But when he holds me I do.

Your back a map to sleepily tell you how I love you so
Your shoulder blades always a consistent ache
My face finds the crook in your chest
Hallowed out to hold my heart steadfast

I don’t often run into my collar bones
My hands are too busy tugging on the too tight knit shirt
Today I didn’t have to fight the stitching off
It hugged my knees loosely
Enough room for you, me and all the hungry ghosts between us
I don’t often run into my collar bones
Today you could drink from them