I live my life through the words I write
Rarely,
so rare does the blood drip crimson
upon the porcelain plate,
do people share the whole truth.
Selective harvesting
of memories
and stories
and lived experiences
whirs as a constant mechanism
in the background shadows of awareness
before any conscious dissemination.
How much of what we see,
hear, experience,
(or, of what we do not)
from other people
can we consider truth?
Anything?
Inner dialogue:
speak to me as though a friend.
Love, not ridicule.
I read books written by other people
(obviously)
and when they say
that writing saved their life
I feel dejected
because I want to say the same
but don’t feel like I can.
I want to be ‘like them’
but tell myself I’m not
because I am nobody
but a small measly voice
whispering into the abyss,
the ever-growing noise in the vastness
swallowing my words.
Moments later
I walk from the living room
to my bedroom
and gaze upon the stacks of notebooks
in the corner.
I flip through the ink-covered pages,
including in the book used today.
Perhaps my perception has been flawed.
Perhaps my life, too,
has been saved
and is being saved
by writing.
Be kind to yourself.
You are ever-evolving.
Change is the constant.
Slow down, there’s no rush.
Give your body time to heal.
The time will come, soon.
Observe how parts of you
shift,
ascend and recede like the tide,
introducing a new side of you
to yourself
every day.
Passions peak and wane
to our pleasure or dismay.
Try not to make meaning
of the waves,
for when at last you do,
they will already be gone,
leaving you in the still, shallow water
gently caressing your ankles.
Walk in the direction opposite
to the voice in your head
if that voice
does not belong to you.
Starting with short, clean,
clear-polished slates,
twice or thrice
daily lotioning,
keeping mind and body
meaningfully occupied,
together
can grow
a new path through the forest.
I had a safe space.
I invited people in.
I realized
my decision was premature
too late.
My safe space dissolved
into an empty void
for months,
tainted by the destruction
I had invited in,
in naivete.
A piece of me broke away.
Remembering
if I made it once
I can make it again
and this time,
add an extra padlock on the door.
No one expects an invitation
so I disregard any felt obligation
to extend one.
Reclaiming safety
for my soul.
I started a new page in the notebook
with a title at the top:
‘What are some things that I feel CONFIDENT in about myself?’
I started a page on the left,
assuming I would need the spread of both left and right pages
like an open book,
to display my confident knowings
for surely, once I started listing,
pages would fill before my eyes.
My list consists of four bullet points,
consuming a quarter of one page.
The rest of the page-spread remains blank.
I cannot think of more to add.
Adding this to the docket of items
to discuss
at my next therapy session.
Dawning Words 