I don’t want anything to be off-limits.
I want this to be a place for myself to
ground.
I want this to be a place for us to
be.
I have written 3 drafts
& none of them felt quite right
so I didn’t click
“publish”.
The ground beneath our feet is
solid.
Tell me about the
foundations
you’ve built.
Let’s not pretend we
know one another
better than
we do.
We don’t know each other at all
& we don’t need to.
There is a deeper Truth
& a deeper Knowing.
You know more than you think you do.
Squirm.
In your arms, I.
The victim of
my own
relentlessness.
Death by
self-compassion.
I told myself I would fucking do this
& I already “missed a day”
& I just want to be seen.
I just want to be known.
I don’t care if you like me. I just want to know myself more deeply.
I just want to love myself more deeply.
I just want to accept myself more deeply.
This is for me, not you.
But you get to read it
& you get to feel it.
How do you feel
when you do?
Art for art’s sake.
Chide.
It’s so easy to criticise, isn’t it?
This silly little vacuum-cleaner.
This silly little fountain of Knowledge.
I’m never sure quite how much to share. But maybe that’s the point.
Poetry is
the perfect decoy
suggestible, regrettable, digestible, confessable.
What are your secrets?
Maybe I don’t have enough.
And that feels strange to admit.
Right now,
today,
I’m in a funk.
This feels strange to admit.
My nervous system is on overdrive.
My body is inflamed.
I feel it. And I feel myself wanting to jump out of it.
I feel myself wanting to jump out of my skin.
And I feel myself sitting in it.
Sitting with it.
Enmeshing myself within that discomfort.
I WANT TO BE LOVED.
I WANT SOMEONE TO CALL ME & CUDDLE ME RIGHT NOW.
AND I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO ASK.
AND I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO EXPLAIN.
AND I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO FEIGN BEING OKAY.
AND I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO FEAR BEING SEEN TO NOT BE OKAY.
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU, I am fine.
This is just another facet.
This is just another side.
This is another (beautiful) part of life.
I am learning, experientially, that I have nothing to fear.
WHAT DO I WANT?
I want to be taken care of.FUCK.
I WANT TO BE TAKEN CARE OF.
I AM SO TIRED.
I FEEL SO MUCH RESISTANCE TO SAYING THESE WORDS OUT LOUD & POSTING THEM ON THE INTERNET & THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THEM THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THEM THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THEM.
And at the end of the day, I can just call it performance art.
Because it is.
Except….
I’m not performing.
This is real.
This is the most real I can be.
This is the most real I can be with you, with me.
I want to be able to be real.
This is my space. My grace. My example.
I want to be able to be real.
I owe it to my children & my children’s children & everyone I’ve ever loved.
I am not a preacher.
I’m fucking messy & real & raw like every other human being & I want us all to be able to be.
Because this doesn’t hurt. It heals.
Join me.
Our secrets are what keep us stuck.