we are the parts of the story
our mother’s never wanted us to tell each other.
maybe we’re the cliff-
hangers
if we read close enough
and if we put seashell up to our own echo
maybe we’d realize how pleasant we sound too-
how tide pool, how deep sea
wouldn’t need necessarily
to longingly listen to other,
to ocean,
for answer.
maybe we’ve spent too much of our time
whispering where we should have been singing,
lessening where we could’ve been loving ourselves
and now our own pitcher sits on the spare bedroom side table.
we never stopped to notice
just how full it was
just how full we are.
maybe
when we go to kiss each other good morning
we wish we could put our lips through the laundry first-
we deem ourselves dirty or damaged because we’ve been diminishing
our own everything for decades.
I feel like I am finally foraging for my own forgiveness
through the fistfuls of fog and frustration,
knitting knee pads so I can stop tearing
the tender out of myself
every time I trip on my trauma
and feel stupid for crying.
been associating my feelings with fuck ups
but I think I’m finally here to feel unapologetically
‘cause I’m not sorry for myself.
I finished the story on my self-sabotage and today
I choose me
and my mascara running down my face.
me and my busy hands
that have been so preoccupied with the happiness of others
they are relearning what it means to be attached to my skeleton.
me and my helium heart waiting to be popped on every fence post it can find
I’m here to hold it higher.
I’m here to hold it all
higher.
& 