I can tell you about my first kiss, or the blade that is my tongue and the faces I’ve seen crumble in the presence of my perceived truth.
And there is not a person on this planet who doesn’t understand what it means to
be hurt or
to love or to look behind them,
down the road where they have walked.
There was scarf on my neck.
The boy I was made to play with, pulled it.
He pulled it hard.
Blood was drawn across the flesh where I covered my fear to speak.
My father smacked my mouth once, because he did not what to hear what I wanted to say.
Whether it was truth or not, it was too close to where his discomfort lived.
His unresolved issues with his father lived across the palm of his hand
now it lives just under the surface of my cheek.
Today I wear lip-gloss to draw attention.
What I say has value.
There is a scar on my knuckle from when I had to ride my bike to work
because he just didn’t feel like driving me.
I blame him for my falling
for not loving me enough
to carry me.
Maybe his back was tired.
I go in and find the vine of inspiration.
She lives inside me.
It is a bright light that shines through the tangled webs of confusion.
Confusion of not knowing when it was appropriate to whisper
speak or keep quiet.
I know where the door is
because I meet it with my face
and sometimes my toe
or my heart.
I’m a blind person feeling her way through the dark forest.
It’s sweet and thick and intense.
It leaves me bleeding.
Through blood, I give life.
I bled when I saw him hold her hand
in my lap
in defiance of what we knew was wrong.
I bled on the inside.
When I breathe deeply enough to when I was eighteen
I can feel the bump
where the scab used to live.
I bled when the phone didn’t ring for days
and then months.
The corners of my mouth began to drop and plummet to the ground where the floor would catch me.
Sometimes standing is hard.
Sleeping, wine and chocolate or a warm bath held me like a newborn baby.
Floating in the juices of Gaia’s healing fluid with a hint of lavender and Sara McLaughlin playing in the living room.
She sang my feelings.
The words didn’t matter.
Her melodic wails spoke the recognition I needed.
I was not alone.
I want to share my life with the world I want to let the world know that they are not alone and in this life there is beauty and it comes wrapped in pain.
And that pain is not the enemy.
Death is not to be feared.
And confusion is a tool.
Go into the dark room and feel around with your body
This is what I want the world to know.
The darkness holds the key.
And you, the listener, create the door.
You create the corridors.
You create the speed bumps and the thorns and the blood.