To Be Resuscitated

There was no moment that the jagged pieces felt good across my skin. I did not hold to the expectation that they wouldn’t hurt
or that scars would remain nameless.

This is life
built in a crescendo and lay waste across my chest.
This is me
gathered momentum and gently oiled my valleys.

I wouldn’t hold the wounds or give them more life than they had already manifested. A choice made as I rode in cars with demons, which in their haunting, offered sense.

I build foundations with a makeshift earth. A magic I gathered from the roots of my own bleeding heart. I live in my purpose through the threads that are presented to me in multiple languages, which I’m still learning to translate. Clarity never dissolves but lies on the other side of every movement I choose to make.

This is love
built from a whisper and circled my lungs.
This is now
gathered in the shape of moons and weighted down my body.

To be held underwater by hands that felt they knew me
and then learn to breathe
To be laid upon by constellations that promised they were the only one
and then shine through the darkness to find new suns
To be covered by false truths that lovingly pointed in the wrong direction
and then make a new path and destination

is to be
resuscitated.

 

 

 

 

*Photo By Carmen Bonilla

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