Little feathers

One day soon

I will…

Not feel consumed. It’s a new set of challenges.

One day soon I will have forgotten how I was taken. I will be willing to forget it. But I’m not sure I ever have. I can still remember the sweet things , from all those years ago.. like shoes too small. I want to try them on again.

I am full of wonder. I don’t know if I will ever bounce back to that optimism. I need it to be scientific right now, l am searching for proof of life after death, almost convinced that I have it.

I’m afraid of marking the landscape with declarations of red flags. I am now afraid of women with children, even more afraid of children with missing parents. I know what that looks like. I wore those shoes. And upon awakening did not know which pair was mine.

I just don’t want to be so mean. Calling out each singular thing.. waking so angry again. I am not as smart as to avoid the simple triangle patterns in your puzzle. I push it off the table. I push it in the water. I stand there watching each individual strand bend under the soothing heat of the boil, wilting in the crystalline sunset.

I am not bending.

The birds in their cage come alive to the sounds of Rachel Maddow and brain feeding rhythms and I suspect, I am past the trauma of their shrill. I can lie on my belly now without the pain of torn tissue. I am ok with being ignored. It is not where I’ll find my worth. I will spell it out. W O R T H and with each letter it becomes me, spreading over the all of me. Fine and complete.

art credit: Intimité by Ulisse Caputo (Italian, 1872–1948)