MAKING ROOM FOR SELF, OVER AND OVER AGAIN

 What a month this has been.  With everything that's been happening to me, it almost felt like an entire year went by. I keep revisiting some part of my life, when I'd held on to empty souls that could never let love in. They left and took a piece of my little hope, to fix their broken with the one I hid so I could hold them without burning a hole through their already damaged heart. What a tragic way to gain and lose isn't it?

 I've mourned a heart I never broke, and yearn for the one I never stole. Ironic how both inhabit one body. How pathetic I am to have loved so carelessly I thought, without boarders, without the fear of consequence and so unconsciously. It is sin to be that comfortable and yet so "eggshelled" from the soles of my feet. I chose a love that killed me every time without batting an eye because I told my heart to be at peace with my destroyer.

Look at me now, choosing to be nobody's mess but my own and completely thriving in it. I thought I'd wallow in self pity until my other self has had enough. I am but an image of what I want to be from the outside, but deep down I'm burning bridges and causing mayhem between my heart and soul and that's fine, because lost is a perspective. I'm grieving for what I think I lost. It chose to stay away, to leave me stranded not knowing what way to go and highly distrusting of anything that looks like it. I love love but I might love too quickly unintentionally for real love. I feel everything unnecessarily.

I am beat down in my own right, happy to sit and observe while time passes with what could've been the actual day. The day to fall all over again. The day to jump hopelessly into a valley of brokenness, to pick one I'd go through fire to mend. There's no tragedy than that of wanting to untangle the strings someone else touched with no intention of healing. They won't leave you the same way they found you, or a little better for Christ's sake. I am a crime scene of murdered hopes, but perhaps someday I'll find a better version of myself to dive into, to reel me back into the bubble I will never allow to be touched by broken branches from a tree I never planted.

It'll remind me to love me more, to write more, to feel more of what is necessary, to throw caution more but more important that I'll never have to worry about ever opening my door to fear. 

For a while I was toxic to everything, trapped to the questions I have no answers to. I have no strength left to hate it all for ruining something that clearly did not belong to them. I put that dagger through my own chest and betrayed self for an illusion.

I let so many of them fondle my already feathery spirit while telling myself it was ok, I'd live through it. I was dying every night for a week because the moon was too silent. 4 am was my time to breathe, but now I have nightmares about how I'll heal without speaking too much on it lest I give it life to keep haunting me. . . 

Surely I want me back; my freedom back, my sanity back, my beautiful spirit back, untouched, untainted and clean without any mishandling. Someday though, some damn day, I will be conquered, mercilessly so engulfed in truth that vulnerability will feel just as beautiful as the word itself. I practice gratitude more every day. Relentless on the reminder that the void is slowly filling up with a bunch of somethings. Everything that is yours will find you, they said, it will meet you in your mess, and embrace you like the sun hugs the sky in summer. Now love...