I have moved from body to body, lodging pieces of myself under the tongues of people who were too quick to swallow me whole without knowing the atoms I was made of.
I have seen myself in the reflections of everyone else and everything else but the truth of true self, sliding from mirror to mirror, never fully looking because every image was blurred by the grains of other people’s frames.
I have fought battles for everyone but myself because the war raging inside of me is so fearful I run away every time the fight cry rings out. I rather fight for someone else than fight for myself because it is easier to fight for what you can see than that which you feel inside, or maybe not, or maybe I am just a coward.
I have been quick to know people and hold people without caring about the cracks in my soul that need holding and the space in my heart that needs knowing. I have felt deep and hard and true for lies and illusions and half-truths. I have ignored the true truths in my mind for fear of looking inside aInika
scovering nothing.
I have emptied words and poured love on the skin, bones and heart of people who would not spare a drop of emotion unless they would get back a whole sea. I have received feelings as wide as the earth and bright as the milky way but they have been reduced to dust because I could not hold them properly , because my hands and heart could not seem to fit them in so they won’t crash.
I have created rainbows out of grey clouds and rain out of sandstorms, each time reaching with my hands, ignoring my aching bones for the hope of finding the one rainbow that leaves me with the pot of gold.
I have taken, I have given, I have broken, I have ached,
I have shattered, I have fixed, I have prayed, I have cursed, I have screamed, I have smiled, I have loved,
I have lifted, I have forgiven, I have been forgave, I have been, I have seen and I am still being.
So maybe my being has a purpose, maybe it does not.
Maybe all the things I have done are paving stones to a road that feels a lot like redemption and looks a lot like contentment.
Maybe I am just a collection of maybes that will eventually be certain.