Maybe I should create
a map of my body;
points of interest,
places you must let it rest on this journey,
how to enter gently
then navigate my often swift exit,
the sites to discover
if you wish to taste it.
The shape shifting politics
and picnic spots of pleasure earned
with plot points to measure the distance
between where you are and where I return.
We’re both still learning the history of this sacred ground,
how to light up every speck of dirt,
the scale played by her buried treasure sounds.
This travel guide is as much yours
as it is mine,
tourists of the divine feminine
contouring her design.
You have never truly held yourself
until every part is loved as truth;
the overwhelmed, the undernourished, the misaligned,
you are always unfinished business.
So kiss each with equal pleasure,
lips better spent on self affection
than speaking of self loathing.
Welcome home each particle of your being that never really left
but was silenced by the unenlightened mind.
We, wild spirits, being all at once in this one life time,
found here like some long lost siblings, my everything alive.
I will raise my voice to speak,
begin to rejoice in my action
even if no one hears me,
for this body houses a spirit
more powerful than the layer of skin
touched by another’s fingertips.
They dip their desire in holy water
whilst I make my mark with pincer grip,
acknowledging your visit to this sacred space,
a ticket stub reminder of all that’s temporary,
you can only ever sleep beside this,
an understudy to my lifelong apprenticeship.
But first, take off your shoes,
this is holy ground
we both need to learn to worship.
I am still not accustomed
to being wanted for my company,
so used to hosting men
in my bed and this body,
the universe expanding
as somehow my space becomes erased.
To be asked what brings me pleasure
should be so everyday.
I may not be convinced of my beauty yet
but I can believe that I am safe,
even as my deepening breath
begs for armour
or out of habit, sleep hesitates,
both waiting up for the decision my heart makes
to trust the hands that hold me.
lay down the weight which you carry,
nobody is owed the heaviness of your soul
and there are other ways to find justice
without holding on to the hard places.
this burden of proof doesn’t belong
to the heart that knows the truth,
whose body shattered into pieces
reflecting someone else’s shame.
name what hurts and let it be,
these wounds may be deep
but do not silence their screaming,
they were never the enemy.
who said you have to do this alone,
healing comes collectively, like a universal truth
and love, it’s time to come home.
You’ve been gone long enough.
I do not want me,
my brain rejects every organ of this body
and bleeds out acid rain.
Joy ran away,
caught a boat across the ocean
now I’m stranded on the bay
with a raft built from rotten wood
and a single bullet
to either bury myself where my soul breaks
or shoot for an SOS.
I’m stuck rooted to the spot,
like a dead weight drowning slowly in quicksand
unsure I rate this life high enough to save it
as the storm cloud approaches along with my fate.
A lightening strike splits the clouds,
allowing space for the heavens to open
as my own hand reaches down.
I would like to rely a little more on myself
and not see hope as a chore,
like eating healthy or being kind to my anxiety,
something other than just coping
when lack of sleep slides into the bed beside me
and swears he’s the only intimacy I’m worth.
Can I place a hand over where it hurts,
yours or mine, or both together,
allow scars to touch bare skin
without lying about their origin,
my longings and wishful thinkings,
mistakes and misplaced trust.
Of the things I find hard to accept,
the most difficult is knowing
how the next steps require
I must let go of them all.