On my soul, my eyes, on my body.
So much weight. It feels hard to move.
Stuck in the muck of life.
Rooted in the ‘not enough part’. Not enough, so must
consume and consume and consume,
Too much, too many, too, too, too.
Is it loving to write these words? To indulge these parts.
Or it is feeding the shame? I can’t tell anymore.
Moss in an early winter storm.
Not sure if I want to reach out or in.
Things have changed. In me and out there.
Is there a difference?
Seeing so much beauty in every thing, every one else.
Can I find beauty in myself, my heart?
Can I hold both the grotesque and the exquisite in the same breath?
My instinct is to silence these wailing parts.
Muffle them in food, technology and sleep.
I might soothe them just by witnessing their existence.
Holding the sweet tension of numbness and aliveness.
Bearing witness to the complexity that is my self, my
experience and my beautiful human heart.