It’s lovely to me the way you talk about the parts of life that get you excited
it’s as if you are experiencing them for the very first time
over and over
Watching your eyes light up anew as you relive something that has already thrilled you once before-
it’s a privilege.
I find myself becoming increasing attached to the corners of your mouth
the ones that inch upwards when you talk about the clouds
Perhaps this is quite selfish,
but I like it even more when you re-live me.
Being loved is a privilege, a privilege, a privilege and I think more people should write honestly about how that feels.
I should have known it when I felt it first –
when the colours on the leaves started changing
and the air became real crisp in the morning-
It’s in the glimmer of rays that shine onto windows
and reflect through condensation on a glass of water-
the one that I held to my lips right before I smelled it-
right before it filled me up and I sighed it out.
Then I wished I could have it back again.
It lingers in the mist and rests among the leaves-
only to let its presence be known by the soft crunches that sound so familiar.
She told me her heart
always aches this time of year
and I said “listen, I get it.
Autumn is missing people season.
At least it’s poetic.”
With a sentimental heart,
I looked at the pictures she had taken of me in the Garden
— smile on my face
— sun beaming
And I thought to myself that if I could send
any picture to heaven it would be this one
“Look Dad and Oma, I shine just like the flowers do”
Real talk on loss:
Perhaps the cruelest part of losing a loved one is that I do not get to show them who I am today. A strange form of self love that I have received from them? When I think of how proud of me they would be I am beaming with acceptance and acknowledgement of my accomplishments. They’re harder to recognize when I just think of them myself, at least for me anyways. What a strange and interesting lesson I have gained from this experience. The lessons never stop– for that I am grateful. Blessed really, to have to angels who teach me so much even in their absence. The ones we love are never really gone though are they? Not a chance.
People say that I will change
As if the world can harden me
They have looked at me with the same knowing in their eyes,
since I was 15 years old
As if they can predict that one day my kindness will be all used up
it has been eight years since I first noticed it
the only difference between now and then
is that I cannot be used, stepped on or pushed aside
My kindness is as raw as ever.
How can i understand
what it means to provide a home
when i have not felt
what it’s like
two hearts beating
i age, and think to myself
that i understand
without ever having
the expectation to reciprocate
the way She has
moulded Herself to fit my life
when our souls were empty
she was the river that filled me first
when i was tired
She would rise as sunshine
to help me grow
when i was weak
She became my energy
only to give up what little She had left
how did i get here
if not for Her
She is a fortress
a barricade that rose
that fought against the world
for a single soul
the wall that has held me strong
My mother is a shapeshifter
and I am trying to flow
into the ebbs and waves of who she is
so that i too
can lay myself down
who do you need be to be?
With all of the love for my angel Mama on earth, and my angel Oma in heaven.
I am the luckiest to have you both.
I tuck the people I meet into hidden parts of myself and they get lost;
preserving their goodness in me like flower petals hidden in a book.
They are pressed perfectly in time this way
and in so doing I am unable to hold onto the ugly.
I see only the parts of them that are fragile, angelic and delicate-
and I keep nothing of them other than the impression they left when they first impacted me
I did not realize the danger of seeing beauty where it does not belong
until I found it making a home inside my heart
–when does compassion become naivety
I wrote the first few lines of this poem in a grocery store parking lot in the notes section of my phone. The idea of home is something I’ve turned over in my mind for quiet a few years now and I’ve never really been sure what to make of it. However, in a hotel bed of all ironic places, I think I finally found the words…
And so that makes me think you really can’t make homes out of human beings.
Because they take things with them when they go.
Like the smell of their baking
or the sound of their voice when you call them on the phone.
They take their laugh
and their cologne
and the way they touch you.
They take the comfort
and the reassurance
and every answer
to every question they leave behind.
We settle like dust into the spaces between their bones
and when they go,
the parts of us that we moved in go with.
Humans are not your home.
Root into yourself. Dig lower.
Plant love so deep within yourself.
Tuck happiness into the safest corners of your rib cage
so that you always have some where only you know to look
Run your hands over every inch of your body
until you know it as well as the walls of the house you grew up in-
And know that you are home.
Say it as you feel yourself breathing-
One hand on your chest
another entwined in your sweet smelling hair,
“I am home,
this body is home,
my soul is so beautifully safe in this home.”
Show me that there is more
That there are bumps in your clean cut edges.
That you would rather free fall than let all of the pieces fall into place.
Give me a reason to stop breathing , and make me like it so much that I never want to fully fill my lungs again
I want you to be wild and all over the place
So much so that I could spend my entire life searching and never uncover all that you are
I want you to thrill me
Be so terribly human that it hurts not to touch you
–I want to want you but you don’t make me feel a damn thing
Starting a new book always leaves my mind buzzing. The prospect of 200 blank pages waiting to be filled over the next few months is mind boggling- these pages represent the spaces that will be left where the tears fell and the ink can’t write, or the scribbles that try to tie my brain back together as I piece through this ironic and crooked world that I quite honestly adore. They represent something that is learning from experience by creating art, they are the harsh and disturbingly beautiful reality of what this world actually is. They are searching, and realizing, and discovering and? They are me. Wholeheartedly me.
I’m excited for what book 5 has in store and as always I really hope you are too 💋