healing

* the following is from awhile ago. I love myself. don't worry :)


I had a therapist tell me once,
it was ironic how much love I gave out
cuz I didn’t give much to myself.
She laughed,
like self-love was a sick joke.
I chuckled
and cried at home.

I had someone tell me once,
I could not love anyone else
until I learn to love myself.
This time,
I got to laugh.
This time,
The sick joke 
was mine
was me.
Might as well wait forever.

I remember hating myself at the age of seven,
journals filled to the brim with criticisms. The standard was set too high.

By eight, 


I had enough pages to stitch them into wings
to fly close enough to the sun
to see my tears turn to steam,
felt the wax burn on my shoulders
and mold into thick skin.
I was nine when Anxiety filled my chest
My new best friend came in the fall.
Depression. Anxiety. And me.
Thirteen i accepted the fight for peace

Was one I had to fight alone with the Holy Spirit as my one and only weapon  
I knew so well from childhood
That I was called to live and not die
The death of Jesus was so real to me at 4
Nailed to the cross for me
Your death instead of mine
Beyond the call of practical love 

This was radical 

heard my heartbeat pound in my ears 
like a warning drum,
then fade.
I’d almost convinced myself I’d done it.

When I started writing,
I smeared my blood on every page
to remind myself 
that everything beautiful has a consequence.
I’d hoped to stall the clotting 
long enough to give myself to the craft
and let myself go.

I have died so many times.

So when I told you 
that loving you almost makes life worth it
I was not joking.
When I tell you
That loving you almost 
makes me forget how much I hate myself,
It is not poetry.

Loving you is taking 
all of the love I could never give myself
and putting it to good use.
It is reminding myself that
if someone can love a dying thing this way,
can hold the Lazarus of my body 
and give thanks for the way it holds back - 
if someone can kiss the scars
administer the pills
absorb the bad days
and wake up smiling next to me,
then I can try to breathe again.

Because self-love does not always come first.
Or second.
Or even ever.

But your love be the guardrail on the edge
be the drawers that hide all the sharp things
be the body that carries my collapsed frame into bed
be the flowers you bought;
because even though they are dying too
they still dance.

Love will not heal me,
will not wipe my slate of my body clean - 
I will always be a woman of wounds
of rope-mark neck
and melted skin.

Love will not heal me;
but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself
and maybe teach me a joke
that I can stay alive long enough to laugh at.

I love you enough to want to love myself too.




If You left the grave behind you so will I



If the stars were made to worship so will I
If the mountains bow in reverence so will I
If the oceans roar Your greatness so will I
For if everything exists to lift You high so will I
If the wind goes where You send it so will I
If the rocks cry out in silence so will I
If the sum of all our praises still falls shy
Then we’ll sing again a hundred billion times

52 Cities Deep / And His Big Weep.

oh 
my 
gosh

THE RISE AND THE FALL!
of THE chase-
the chase of all chases
the surrendering way,
you throw your hands up-

away from me.


i sway into the truth

you cover your ears
rejecting the news.

enough is enough

you chased my love
19 months

and when i say stop
you take it to heart.

The New York Post slides 
under my hotel room door
front page is your face-just for today
headline reads:
*bold font*
"the big star" with talent but in the end his pride ruins it all"
headline is:
"charming cliche of a man
chases a lovely woman 
catches her
tricks her
only to run away!
 after his tour extended past may.
(tour sales down despite  radio plays)

headline says:
" majority of charismatic men are all sad at night-
no matter how many fans they have!
the price of extroversion:
is pain!
the price of the lead role is:
loneliness 
and no one to call
when you feel like
dying 
like, for real this time"


the rise and fall of
whatever the hell that was
just late night calls and
static, so much static.

flash forward to you leaving
for a new pair of eyes
lips
hair
hands
words.

52 cities deep:
you will find a version of me,
In her.

A fever dream fantasy
you will seek

Flash forward to 2am
The south, about to enter REM

picture those haunted hallways 
where a woman's intuition
and her subconscious meet
(repeat repeat repeat)

I don't miss him because you can't miss a person who 
never really knew you
only the fantasy of you
that they crafted
based on what?
a cartoon?

i don't dream of him, ever.

i dream of heath ledger wearing a fisherman sweater on a pale beach
and the little mermaid when she gets her new feet.

9 cities later:
back to my replacement

Crystal ball says its a girl with a common middle name
a girl who is younger than me
with less sorrowing  in her eyes 
less words in her vocabulary
never left the Midwest
hasn't heard of Budapest 
you speak and she cheers
you ignore her and she
feels she's done something wrong
you're her sun
and she needs you now
to function
she's too young to know
that the cycle starts
with the chase
ends with the escape
the silence
the amnesia 
skip to 2 years later 
December in Ohio
"don't i know you from somewhere"
and he is honestly asking you this
because he is the sun
self appointed but
the sun

move on to the far east
its late spring
she's a college girl
less fight in her swing
less pain. fewer memories
fewer lives
fewer mistakes
maybe a girl who has a sister that's not dead
ans haunting her family
maybe her story is less heartbreak
less weeping
more singing
Wednesday night testimony girl
in a jean skirt
pretty face
big flirt

the winter you flew to Europe 
the winter you stopped calling your father
middle of nowhere on a train headed to Paris
you see her
and she is close to resembling me
just a little bit.

you open your mouth
to begin the game
the cycle is spinning
and she laughs in your face
she walks
away
and the daily mail
has given you a nickname now
one that you hate
headline says:
"you're looking weak"
they interview a nutritionist who speculates on your shrinking frame
"hollow eyes
lack of smile
pale complexion"   

headline reads:
"ALIVE but mostly dead"

And the women sitting outside of a cafe the morning of the headlines
you refuse to read from today
feel sorry for you.
feel happy they have boyfriends who love them 
in the purest way.
love without a timeline, without the seduction of fame

that's the thing about good women
we were born wearing our crowns
wisdom is our best friend
discernment is engraved in the bones of our bodies
our skin is made of prophetic cells
our hearts are homes for the holy spirit
and the love for babies and pale oceans

you write me to tell me
"i miss you. I'm lonely"
i read this and feel nothing.

i reply with the sunglass emoji.

you cursing the day we began
is how that conversation came to an end.


sometimes, i miss the wolves that used to chase me
but for the most part, I don't.

i know they will be back
for more heartbreak
a sad woman is worth more than a million happy ones
the currency of pain: to feel anything in a country so numb
is a delicacy
just a gram of her sadness
will cost you a piece of your soul but my god
it's worth it a thousand time over
like crack cocaine
they beg me for romance
knowing the high won’t stay
the comedown is coming
the sun is rising with the throbbing craving
for more
addicted to this second hand ache
with
still born stories of hope
laced in hate
a future we can’t hold
we can barley create
in the corners of the town that neither of us claim
curating heartbreak
calling it fate.


the sickness

All I wanted from you,

Was a man staring back at me 
like I was something he couldn't lose


So I rolled the dice
walked from The Chelsea Hotel to 159th

the years go by
i run,
you do not follow.
and just as the tears have dried
you come back
with a heavy sentiment
like the past was just a dream,like its not 2016
you confess that you still miss me,
with a familiar tenderness


you are dancing around our memories
like its holy ground
you begin to glorify my
humaness
and i remember this feeling
the pressure to be all that you want me to be
the idea
you challange me to shrink once more

i digress 

i think how in the world
is it you?

how did you come back to me?
is it fate or the way broken hearts form this addiction to pain

am i to be the villain in your narrative?
could you only be with me when i was sick
and young and crying all the time

now that i am strong
you seem to be unsure


the madness of static


The addicts that find me-

In the peace of the morning,
bathing in a soft white light.

Between the purity and the devotion to what is holy. 
I am nun like in December-and happy here alone. 

The Holy Spirit flows from my veins 
and he calls it magic. 

The high of the supernatural fuels his pursuit of me. 
He speaks of my spirit and he's manic
with tunnel vision he wants it
the addict is angry
Can't steal it
can't reach it
can't buy it off the street
Thinks I'm keeping secrets.
i speak of Jesus and he turns violent. 

 And I'm covered in black fabric 
in a forest like always/
Solitude in Tennessee

He calls me his future.
I watch his mouth move and I keep thinking...
"how insane!"

Addicted to the second hand smoke of
the Holy Ghost 

He is relentless,
stubborn
static 
and shifty 
with

still born stories of hope.

He speaks to me with 
Strange fantasies 
laced in hate
Paints me a picture of the future 
a future we can’t hold.

Calls me weeping says it's just withdrawals  
says he barley creates anymore 
says the lack of me is cruelty 
He needs the clouds
to think 
to feel alive 
to come close to peace
to sleep

The addict seeks me like an orphaned wolf-

He howls my name each night 
in the corners of this town
that neither of us claim

The wolf is busy:
curating heartbreak
calling it fate.

Insane. 




 I FEEL YOU IN MY DREAMS



































I feel it in my bones you're about to move...

In Lou of it all...I felt love my whole life-
Even when I longed for it.

rituals

eventually you get sick of the graveyards you visit
so you build new ones

this cycle goes on and on

gradually you leave the rituals
that kept you alive
alive just to mourn the dead
is no way to live.

with respect for the good ones gone:
let them fly. they have wings. they are the light in all things.

and for the rest of them:

let the dead bury the dead

listen to the soil

doing the job you thought was your own.


wash.

There is no shame in the early morning hours.
Moonlight on your pain:
The cleansing wax and wane.

How you would start a fire in the desert:
Sun on object-
light on body
forming:
fire on wound
burning the ache
into beautiful flames
(the reverse)
/
I am not ashamed of the moon on my back
I will not conceal my pain for you.



Your prayers are the sand scattered in the wind.

THE THICK SICK BLACK BULK OF IT:
Does not kill you, i’m sorry.
Right before the glory, you will want to die.
Talking to yourself like you would a child:
Surely this was THE Desert, THE Dark Night.

And the sun says, Yes..
And the desert answers:
Your prayers are now sand scattered in wind/
The healing is here,it is all around you.

And beyond your decade long view-that exalted
solitude 

The Glory rises/
The Kingdom comes.

The promise land you bled for: arrives with angels singing

Your prayers are the sand scattered in wind

The night always ends,
I'm sorry.

The glory wins
The glory wins
The glory wins

Your prayers are the sand scattered in wind.


Sadness is my boyfriend

"expect sadness
like
you expect rain.
both,
cleanse you."


-N.M.

darkwasthenight





"Life and death, energy and peace. If I stop today, it was still worth it. Even the terrible mistakes that I made and would have unmade if I could. The pains that have burned me and scarred my soul, it was worth it, for having been allowed to walk where I've walked, which was to hell on earth, heaven on earth, back again, into, under, far in between, through it, in it, and above."  - Gia

WE WANDER / WE GROAN

Real love, 
it finds you somewhere-

with your back to it.




The kind of thing to look at when you sit down to grieve.

I am disconnected from parts of me that are deep wells of sadness.

To connect to pain is a memory away. I do not reach for you because you destroy me for days.

Mending: how do we keep safe our memories? Especially the ones we must leave behind in order to survive.

Even if we love memory.

Even if we use it as a way to devotion.
Even when it’s not.

Even when we dragged it around like a block of light just to see if it lasted.


Even when it breaks. Even when we know it will break. Let’s be shocked,

after.



sometimes in suffering we find ourselves.