Run your hands through me. I’m like soil now, embedded in your nails and the lines of your palms. This is fascinating—becoming my own study in decomposition.
You should come over sometime. I have tap water and half a loaf of moldy bread. Everything is a mess. It’s part of the process.
I wore white today. I know better. My heart bleeds through everything. It’s not a problem. It’s just embarrassing.
I write lists of things I know. Actually, I write the same list, everyday, of the three things I know….
- I am loved.
- I am hated.
- My daughter thinks I’m a genius and likes my hair
My therapist continuously reminds me to be aware of stories—the ones I am told. The ones I tell myself.
One time I heard this story about how I’m a greedy piece of shit. I loved the irony.
I pray hourly. My God is a beautiful black woman with ochre coated dreadlocks and good birthing hips. She urges me to be one part kind, one part fierce. My God is a badass mother fucker.
Run your hands through me. I am almost ready to be mixed into the earth. I am almost ready to become something I won’t even recognize.
Come in. Step over yesterday’s projects, stacks of bills and laundry. It’s ridiculously beautiful.
To those who love me, I love you.
To those who hate me, fuck you.
Run your hands through me. I am ready.