#musingsofmi

Now, I spend my nights sipping tea beneath the stars,

watching rabbits dart about,

quick, restless, ready to run at a moments notice.

I wonder if they’re aware of the freedom they possess

Or if they’re simply fleeing from the unseen

As I did for so many years.

For so long, I ran.

Desperate to escape the hopelessness and despair that had taken up residence inside me.

Aching for the days when I’d finally feel something.

Anything other than the bitter craving for sweet release.

Happiness didn’t crash into me like a tidal wave.

It crept in, soft as moonlight, a steady ebb and flow,

Filling the void I thought would be hollow forever.

Peace arrived quietly, in the gentle rustling of the leaves.

My sorrow no longer howls, instead it whispers with the wind.

Joy lives in the warmth of my hands cradling my cup.

Hands that no longer tremble and ache, desperate to let go.

I never thought I’d survive to witness this beautiful life unfold.

Prompt: tell me you’re not okay without saying I’m not okay.

All the oxygen in the room

Suddenly turns into water.

And I wonder

If I have what it takes to grow gills.

I inhale deeply.

Praying for a miracle.

Relief floods my body,

As my lungs expand.

Exhale,

I watch intently.

Bubbles bloom from my lips

And ascend to the surface.

It seems

I see a woman who has walked,

run,

flown,

and fallen.

A woman who has failed as much as she’s triumphed.

Cried as much as she’s laughed.

Cursed as much as she’s prayed.

The woman staring back at me,

she’s loyal to no one,

and nothing.

except the act of rebirth.

She’s a warrior.

A goddess.

A dreamer.

A survivor.

I see a woman

who’s begged to be loved, and walked away

as lovers dropped to their knees,

begging her to stay.

She’s picked up all that she could carry,

and run away more times than she can count.

Arms tight against her ribs,

clutching pieces of her life.

Leaving a trail behind her,

tumbling in her wake.

Too desperate for escape

to stop and retrieve them.

It’s okay.

She’ll make new memories.

Buy new things.

She’s learned how to let go.

Become an expert

At moving on with empty hands

And a quiet hope.

After all,

starting over is the oldest friend she knows.

She knows beginnings

like the back of her hand.

They’ve taken long walks in the park,

laughed at corny jokes,

and wept.

Sinking down.

Knees to chest,

onto cold porcelain.

Fallen teardrops

Mingling with the shower stream.

This woman,

She’s fearless.

On the outside, at least.

Inside,

she trembles.

Unsure what each day will bring.

Never knowing

when the next signal to run

will come.

Like the toll of a bell,

Demanding,

she abandon this journey,

And start again.

You see,

for as long as she can remember,

life has been a coyote

and she,

a rabbit.

Always on edge.

Always alert.

Always aware of danger

lurking in the shadows.

patiently waiting,

for the moment to strike.

The woman before me knows:

peace isn’t given.

It’s snatched from the heavens

after waging a war

that can only be fought within the soul.

She’s trudged through the shadows

to open the blinds,

using sunlight as her weapon

to burn through the darkness,

taking residence deep inside.

The woman you see here today

She’s been up,

down,

and all around.

and she’s here to say:

The running ends today.

I’m here to stay.

I’m from fireworks echoing through canyon walls.

I’m from loud music, spades, dominos, go sit at the kid’s table.

Barefoot summers on hot pavement.

Koolaid pickles and dime candies from the candy lady.

I’m from beauty salon, liquor store, check cashing,

church, pawn shop, liquor store, liquor store, church.

I’m from absent father, narcissistic mother,

The eldest daughter who raised herself.

I’m from Newport 100s, Bud Ice and c-sections.

Late night shifts. week-long sleepovers at granny’s.

Housekeys swinging from lanyards.

I’m from Sunday service, Wednesday service, choir practice, praise dance.

I’m from, do it because I said so.

I’m from A honor rolls and after-school debate clubs.

From, “my mom forgot me again, could your mom take me home?”

I’m from, “you’ll never be better than me”

I’m from dingy locker rooms and $20 lap dances.

I’m from corner store cat calls and men who never saw me.

I’m from black eyes and broken bones.

A black sheep who birthed an even blacker sheep.

I’m from college textbooks and student org meetings.

From city bus rides, stolen formula, DV shelters.

I’m from court testimonies and underestimation.

Daddy issues, mommy issues, trust issues.

From praying women and men soaked in gin.

I’m from, you were never supposed to make it.

But I hear your voice in my head often.

Your words used to cut through me

like razor blades, Sharp and sudden.

Now, they glide like a butter knife.

Slow and cruel,

Still Desperate to do damage.

It’s been 42,240 hours

since we’ve been in the same room.

But your face greets me in mirrors.

Lurks in the corners of my dreams,

That look of disappointment

you wear so well

bores deep into my soul.

It’s been 4 years, 9 months and 25 days

since I chose to love myself

more than I feared losing you

So why does your ghost still follow me?

I used to set myself on fire

As an act of rebellion

Sending smoke signals

That screamed,

I don't need your approval

Truth is,

I was waiting for you

To notice the smoke.

To stamp out the fire.

To show you cared.

I used to fear your shadow.

Feared waking up to your voice

Harmonizing with mine.

Feared feeling your bitterness

Stitched into my skin

But now I see,

I’m not you.

Yes,

pieces of you reside within me.

It’s your hips I swing, when I strut

Your laughter spills from my mouth

But I am not you.

Every mirror holds your reflection.

Your habits sprout inside me

Like seeds I never meant to water.

But I’ve learned,

I don’t have to let them grow

I don’t have to feed

What tries to consume me

They say we become our parents as we age

Maybe I’ve inherited your shape,

But not your shadow.

Maybe I carry your voice,

But I’ve taught it new words.

You still haunt the halls of my body

But I’ve stopped letting you rearrange the furniture

Perhaps I’ll always flinch at my reflection

But I’ll take these pieces you left behind

And build something else.

I live here now

And I’m learning to call it home.