If we can restore vibrancy to color
stripping layers of time
to render art new
then can we lift sound particles
from memories
laid down decades before
dab a pen over words
slandering our hearts
eliminate critical noises
that chastise
til all we recognize
is a blank slate of static
where WE select
rhythm and pace     
            
compliments      feeding our lives' diorama  

                 beliefs              entangled    
                                    between      
                                              heartbeats

we become the artist
         the symphony playing remastered tunes

Stay Strong    
                                  You are Valuable
And, most importantly,

           You Deserve to be Loved

she handles memories like a crime scene,
each shared photograph shows
a clue -
oil stains on armchairs, misplaced magazines
she’d mistake a sob of despair
for laughter,
love for pity.
every remembrance she mars with red ink,
as if to tell her side of a story
that never existed.

I use my prescription note
as a bookmark
a milligram per page
a page for every breath

the breath of wolves
of swollen air
and dreams too real

it's not as if
I really know the difference

I think I like it like that

the inner voice whispers,
"tell them you're struggling."
my vocal cords are warmed up,
ready to give life to the words.
but the hand over my mouth
is an impermeable barrier
set by the critical voice
that is fueled by fear.

I never noticed my

gut jiggle
thighs touch

knobby elbows sticking out

flat chest
wide nose

dry skin and crooked toes

Until society told me

no,

no,

No.

-body image