psithurism
“And I want to be held down. I don’t know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.”
I race haphazardly through things, falling and getting up again to propel myself further and further away from the point where I am. Gravity is necessary for even the swiftest fellows to fly. I would trade my bloody hands for the experience of flying, even for a second, before colliding with the ground.
I know myself well enough to understand that the flee is fed by my fight to exist. The will to be alive demands a furious heart. I need both palms to hold with fingers spread outward. I want my organs to understand the elements. The bitterness of wood. The wetness of rain. The suffering by the sun. The cool wash of wind. The iron of my blood is no match for the metal playground where I rock forward and back on the leather-bucket swings. The rope's been tied to a large tree with a trunk wider than the mosque. People were not here first, the tree claims.
I never wanted to be the outcome of your intended achievements. I don't want to be dutiful; I want to be desired.
I will not be the symbol of your apology. You do not get to turn to me and ask for forgiveness.
I am accountable for my word; this is my practice.
I am refining what I want to say. It has taken me a very long time to get here and many leaps from moving vehicles.
When I first felt the scream, I stifled it by holding my breath.
I spent over a decade purging my insides to avoid feeling what I felt.
Admitting to that would mean putting it into words and saying something.
I am ready to speak. I am willing to listen to my body and say, No when I do not align with what is offered.
I belong to the Earth and the Great Mother; I do not need to rip off my wings and paint over the glitter.
If you don't like how I sound, don't listen.
If you don't like how I look, move in another direction.
If you don't like what I write, stop reading.
I have an archive of strong, beautiful, compassionate women who give me the strength to endure. Their hope feeds my light. Their wisdom encourages my truth. Their questions fill me with wonder.
I tore my long lace skirt on the asphalt and I'll never forget how my voice felt erupting from my body. The sensation of a lion ripping the skin from an antelope.
I am the feline and the gazelle; while one part of me was dying, the other grew stronger.
The essence needs to transform. Water exists in varying states. Liquid, gas, solid. As do I.
I was amorphous and what I have realized is that I need a form to be free.
I thrust myself out of that cage and need a paintbrush to touch up the blurry details.
Look - there are my eyes. Blue.
Touch - here are my hands that glitter.
Listen - this is my voice you're reading.
Can you hear it in your body?
Photo source.
