#weaving thoughts

I sit against the corner of my bed and wonder and whisper and ask and try and the universe seems to answer that there is hope, because the boards and nails of the universe are hope. But I am blind to all but the splintering edges of it, the bloody fingernails from clutching to it. If the universe is hope than I am elsewhere all together. A worker dismissed from site when my work was completed, not made to enjoy the world I am part of. They say they can see every name etched in the curves, adding and shifting, and impermeable. But I have smoothed over my own, worn it down in service of others’ shining more brightly.

I don’t think I remember being a child. Not really. I remember being on duty. I don’t think I remember letting the tension out of my shoulders in laughter. But I remember what taught me to stand up straight.

Do you think the sacrificial lamb was let into heaven, enough though it was no longer pure? Do you think it was blamed for the red marring its wool?

The rain is tapping against the window of my darkened room. I can hear my brother laughing at the tv downstairs. My phone has a text from my sister saying she misses me. I am alone, but I can hear my family.

anywhere i go, i thrive. the wind carries me and the earth tethers me all at the same time. how can i not be protected when every element is holding me with such warmth?