I long for this expression
This raw, peeled back one
The one I can barely type
As my hands shake
My jaw clamping down
To keep quiet.
Oh, all the many things I have done
To keep quiet.
A life wearing a muzzle
Is not life.
It’s the twirling, immobilizing death of who we really are:
Muddy, gritty earth.
We all deserve to express our truth, unedited, utterly unhinged…
And my truth
Is the eager one that makes me rise up
Even in a molten sea of tears
Even in my messy, broken pieces
And look this day straight in the eye
With my chin up
And not once tip-toe
And not once edit
And let me
Out of me.
That is all I wish for.
Not to be blocked by the black lava of pain and abuse that still taunts and torments me.
But to be myself
So I reach
I dig deep for my truth
I stutter, I tremble, I howl and cry out
In this raw, ripped-open space
I am utterly free.
My chest torn open
As a thousand butterflies release
We can call it whatever we want
Because it’s entirely more than a rebirth or becoming
Those words make me mad
For they do not speak to the fiery depth of what this means to me
To meet all my broken pieces
And sigh the sweetest sighs of relief like violins through pouring tears.
Like the way soft notes on the piano can drive inside your skin.
I am not completely free.
But this is the start.
The juicy beginning.
The beginning of my life, my way, with my words, my voice
As though whispered gently from the trees.
And so it is,
The start of my life.
Photo: FLickr, https://flic.kr/p/czkL2S.