Tearing at your own flesh will make blood.
Attempting inhibition often creates eruptions.
Occasionally it’s a restraint of wild woman anger,
but most often a deluge of tears.
Watcher of changing morning light.
When in one’s own wound
there is no separation, lest her story of loneliness.
Tender shells make for better prey.
Over forty years of armoring.
Embellishments found across the ocean
fade by the sun.
Attractive trinkets for the joy of noticing.
So does disappointment.
Inexplicable blues of desert sky beyond white sheer cotton,
and a vibrant ancient orange draped on strong wood
is pause worthy.
Aches can seem like they will swallow a person whole.
Or there is the possibility of diminishment over time, like the tiniest leak on a tire.
Temperatures unusually cold makes sensation of a body more accessible.
Able body. Mother of a child with a less able body.
Woman who carries a 15 year old body, beautiful body.
A she who holds so much more than bones and blood.
Silent tears, loud wails behind closed doors of empty houses.
Reverential current that continues to exist sustaining organs.
One square inch at a time allows the new dawn to return what was possessed.