When I tell my story I want it to be beautiful.
I want people to smile, or cry.
When I tell my story I want to weave in all of life’s intricacies. I want to include each moment building up to one another.
When I tell my story I want to cherish the words from within me, to let the words delicately dance over my heart before they escape my petal lips, I want to hold the words one more time to my earthen chest, like a warm towel, freshly dried, like a baby at my breast,
I want one last time holding onto myself, my words.
One last time before I release my weaving's.
Before crest fallen mountain tops, before ravens and eagles, before lucid dreams, and crinkled papers, I want to remember the gentle touch, the soft warmth gliding over me, falling off of the words,
to remember the imprint on my heart, not the words but the feelings.

Once I tell my story, like an old grandmother around a fire, singing out the soul’s song, tapping out the rhythms with the heel of aged shoes,
once I tell my sacred blessings, tell of how the moons tide washed me, rippled blood into my pores, across sands my feet walked deserts, how I was once the suns child and once the moons, now a child of the earth, the universe.
Once I spit out the words, once I sing and cry them out, once I escape my body and these memories holding me here, once all of that is told, is when I’ll be free. it will be at the hour the sun hits the horizon, when the fire truly blazes before it dies, it will be that moment, precious sacred airs,
tears and rips from our eyes water
because life is so beautiful,
simple but diffcult
it is then
that I’ll be free.