Monserrat

No Jealousy because I love them both.

Compete to be my Favorite, With Good Sportsmanship.

Respect Me, Protect Me, Be of Service To Me.

One walks In-Front, One Behind Me

One is the Anchor, Solid Stone,

The Quiet Harbor of the known.

He holds your hand through driving rain

And speaks the language of your pain.

One is the Spark, the Sudden Sea,

The Rush of who you long to be

He calls my name and time stands still

A sudden curve against my will.

Bitter Sweet & Bone

If you could split the bone apart,

Unlatch the cage that holds my heart,

You’d find a sharp and jagged ache,

A fragile glass about to break.

It cuts like a Martini glass,

As heavy, silent hours pass.

A tangled web of quiet prayer,

Suspended in the crowded air.

An olive pierced upon a spear,

So heavy with the weight of fear.

Or like a bruised and heavy grape,

That longs to let its wine escape.

The bitter green, the crushed-out sweet,

Are pressed together in defeat.

We steep within the shallow bowl,

The liquid ache that drowns my soul.

The ice cubes melt and slowly thin

The burning ache trapped deep within.

A silver shaker pours the chill,

While all my frantic thoughts grow still.

We twist the rind, we spill the juice,

But never find a clean release.

You drink me in, or pour me out,

A cocktail made of hope and doubt.

The glass is chilled, the stem is cold,

Holding a grief that feels so old.

Yet even as the poison stings,

It feels like what a rescue brings.

But right beside the bleeding wound,

A quiet, stubborn truth is found.

A golden light begins to bloom,

Reclaiming all the painful room.

It is a longing, deep and wide,

Too fierce for skeletal walls to hide.

Yet through the cracks of all this pain,

I wait for sun inside the rain.

If only you could reach within,

To see where I end, and you begin.

The Lounge Guest

I see the cage of bone you wear,

The heavy smoke, the crowded air.

I hold the glass, I touch the stem,

And watch your shadows start to spin.

I pour the liquid, clear and cold,

And drink the grief you say is old.

I feel the sting of sharp-edged glass,

As silent, heavy hours pass.

You think I merely sip and drain,

Blind to the olive and the pain.

You think I do not feel the spear,

Or taste the bitterness of fear.

But I can see the golden spark,

That fights so hard against the dark.

I feel the poison and the cure,

The quiet truth that stays so pure.

I hold you close against the chill,

Until your frantic thoughts grow still.

I trace the lines along your skin,

The second time I fasted was for 7 days; I was waking up at the Beach Everyday; it was romantic too

The third time I fasted was for 22 days; I was 3 months postpartum; felt so powerful and divine.