Grow

I want to be... A flower
I want to plant my roots
Deep inside the muddy earth
I want to stretch my leaves 
High above the azure sky
I want my petals to sing
With the birdsong drifting
On the morning air

To stand with my stem
Waving
Free

Garden Hands

I’ve been working in the garden a lot lately, when my body allows it. I find it to be very relaxing and therapeutic. I don’t have a ton of space but and attempting to squeeze in what I can. I’m most excited about my Jack-o-Lantern pumpkin! I just have to be sure to get to it before the chipmunks do!

I waltzed onto our concrete slab today and happened upon this gorgeous shadow. It makes me think of how I feel so trapped in, yet so disconnected from my body. Living with chronic pain is such a lonely battle. So difficult to describe, even to the people I live with and love every single day. 

Today I leave you with my Garden Hands. 

Fibro-optic Art

Yesterday I did what we call in the Chonic Pain community a “Could but Shouldn’t.” I got to see Pollock (and yeah, I cried. Again.) and exposed my kid to some art (she was bored the whole time). I also was able to spend time with my in-laws.
But I paid (and am still paying) for it. By the time I got home my entire body was THROBBING. 😭 
It isn’t just the walking – it’s the drive that kills me. Any sort of activity that is outside of my pathetic norm of Target, Jewel, and brief garden tending is like throwing my body into the middle of feeding time on the “Midnight Meat Train.” (You should see it).
I’ve learned my lesson. Those days have gone. Tallulah didn’t get why we had to “drive all this way when I can see this stuff on YouTube?”

Me neither kid. 

Melanin

This brown skin

This brown skin is terrified

These cells cry out

My melanin remembers the motherland

Remembers the rocking of the undercurrent on that ship

The shackles around my ankles

The whip cracking my back

This brown skin tearing open and bleeding
I remember trading freedom for service

We got some acres

But no respect

We sat in diners but were not served

We drank from fountains but were not quenched
You ask

Why do we gather?

Why do we gather?

Why do we cry out?
This brown skin is terrified.

Our cells cry out.

Our melanin does not forget.

Paper

This is a house with butterfly wings

Kept in clear plastic baggies

Covered in layers of dust

They lay unattached
solitary
grotesque

Waiting to be discovered   by someone
like me

Love Letter

This one
Is for You
my love.

You make my heart beat
You cause my lungs to inhale
and exhale.

You formed me from nothingness.

You decided to make me a lost child –
lonely, torn,
worse than fatherless.

You kept me safe.

I remember finding You,
I remember the first time I read Your words

I had just been admitted to hospital
a mental hospital
And my tears could have brought forth rivers within days,
You heard my cries,
and answered my wordless prayers.

You were with me.
You’re always with me.

Collage

Street art by Rejoice and then some.