You are to me as I am to myself
Reflected distortions
I look to you
When unraveling complications
I wonder into
A comforting soundboard

If I die in the jungle,
among the rot produced by ubiquitous living,
among the fragrant green and surging noise--
--my God, the noise--
               then I live on in the ants that
                        section up my skin
                                 to carry
                                    back
            to colony and queen , in soil or up trees.
I live on in the green--hidden, but insistent,
a well kept secret, in the chlorophyll.

I live on in the jungle.

If I die on the tundra,
then, first, it's the foxes, with their
seasonal shade shifting, who will then make
               more foxes.
And, then, it's the scavenging bears (of either hue, earth or ice).
And, finally they'll find me, the microbes,
                         though they'll take their time.

I live on, on the tundra.

If I die in the desert,
parched, withered, mummified,
not more than anomaly among tiny grains,
then, still, the wandering jackal
               --observing protocol--
          will pay her visit and, with me, provide;
          gaping, yawning mouths in hot wind
                         receiving against backdrop
                              of endless, shaking
                                           sky.

I live on in the desert.

But, if, in wandering familiar street maps,
in frequenting my favored haunts, and
               in daily rendering,
     I am forgotten by those I love,
               and who best love me,--
          if my imprint fades for them...

...then dead do I walk upright.

Like mushrooms, we are connected.
It is hard to see where one fungus stops.
And the next one starts.
The complex network of mycelium
Ties us all together at the root.
We grow from the mossy ground,
Unsure if we are a new being
Or just a new extension of the whole.
Regardless, we are each unique.
Distinguishable.
We stand alone as ourselves,
But we grow together as one.
Are we a family?
Or are we different organs of one organism,
Working in tandem, doing our part?
I suppose all these descriptions can coexist together.
We do work together, sharing resources,
Distributing based on need, not want.
We are a family of mushrooms.
Our spores share the same DNA
As they float through the air.
We are one with each other,
But we are also our own selves.

Why do I growl when I'm upset?
Grrr I want to hold you
Grrr I need your touch
Grrr please help me
Maybe I growl because the only part of me that is allowed to feel pain is the Beast.
Maybe the Beast lurks behind my tongue,
wanting to scream, but only able to scare.
I pity this Beast. It does not bite, and it cannot bark.
Its sole connection to the world is a defensive, angry, growl.

She has lived, she has wandered,
loved and lost, dreamed and fallen.
She is not untouched by time,
nor unshaken by the past.
But if she stands beside you now,
if she looks at you with eyes that see
not just who you are,
but who you are becoming,
what else matters?

She is not perfect—
neither are you.
Together, you may stumble,
may fumble through the dark,
may misunderstand and misstep.
But if she makes you laugh,
if she stirs your thoughts,
if she is unafraid to be real,
to be flawed, to be human—
hold onto her.

She may not think of you
every moment of the day,
but she will give you the one thing
that costs her most to lose—
her heart.
So handle it gently.
Don’t try to change her,
don’t measure her love against expectation,
don’t ask for more than she can give.

Instead—
smile when she brings you joy,
tell her when she makes you ache,
and when she is gone,
miss her.

They told me I was loved.
Said it like a fact, like a given, like air.
And I nodded, let the words settle on my skin
but never sink in.

Because love—love is hands reaching,
but understanding?
Understanding is knowing why mine pull away.

I sat in rooms full of people who swore they cared,
but no one asked why my laughter always came half a second too late,
why silence fit me like a second skin.

They called me beautiful, said I was smart,
but never saw the way I flinched at echoes of my own thoughts.
They held me when I cried, but no one ever asked
what the tears were trying to say.

I used to think I was ungrateful—
to have love but still feel lost.
But now I know:
Love can be loud, can be warm, can be everywhere—
and still not speak your language.

So if you’ve ever felt this way,
like you exist in translation,
like love is the ocean but you are still thirsty—
I need you to hear this:

You are not wrong for wanting more.
You deserve to be understood.

I play the gora,

mother is silent, she sees --


that I don't hear her.