An orange flower
sways in the wind,
like the curl that falls across your forehead.
I am reminded of the shape
of your eyes,
the curve of your hips,
your smile in the sun.

One day,
I‘ll hold your hand
while you carry a little version of you
and my life will be absolute.
It’ll be all of you,
all of me,
cradled in your arms,
always.

A wound I mistook for healed
opened itself last night.
I slipped and spiraled
in my skin,
and I remembered what it was like
to be fourteen again,
and miserable with every glance
in the mirror.
—
Oh teenage girl,
I wish I could love you
into healing.
I long to soothe you
into breathing.
for now,
I keep you shut
in the back of a dusty drawer.
One day,
I‘ll learn to love you.

Worry is the constant of my life, it has accompanied me in big and small moments ; forever familiar to my body. It has feasted on my self-doubt, my fearfulness and my uncertainty. It has ruined my self-confidence - ****** the life out of me in the same breath.

No amount of self-help books or breathing techniques can cut Worry from my limbs. It has grown roots in my heart, my lungs and my brain. It has become a part of me, and I am otherwise incomplete.

I feel it all of the time - judging me, manipulating me, stealing my joy in moments meant to be my happiest.

Oh, how I wish to put it down, like a glass of water. Chug it. Swallow it. Forget all about it.

Gave up the battle,
Oh, but then God brought you here.
I have lost nothing.

I searched for you
in warm hands,
in soft eyes,
in more hellos
than goodbyes,
hoping to stitch
what you rarely gave me.
Anyone
to call Mother,
to save me.

I learned to fold myself
smaller,
and smaller.
I became a piece of paper,
never felt safer,
turning into nothing -
Air,
distancing myself
from you,
in despair.

I wore perfection
like my favorite dresses,
hanging.
My mirror knew my emptiness,
twirling, changing.
I thought if I sparkled enough, just right,
you might finally see me,
maybe even
appreciate my creativity.

But you were carrying your own
ghosts of the past,
nowhere to come home.
And I held your silence
like a secret,
thought it was mine to keep.

As a woman myself now,
I see the cracks in your face.
Beneath the pretty bow
and lace -
an unwanted woman,
an unspoken ache.

So I loosen the bow,
and decide, in time -
I will forgive you
because it’s your first time
living, too.