Blood at 28 in November

I am drinking RED wine,

and I am bleeding Red,

or something mahogany-like,

as it is my first day,

of this cycle.

I am painting the walls RED,

or something labeled, “plum cherry”

and I’m hoping for some root chakra

style inspiration of

GO GO GO.

And I’m looking at the

sheer availability of things,

and that which allows for

greater self-expression and

all I can think to do is

pour my Lunette cup on the top of

my himalayan salt lamp,

and watch the clumpies trickle down

as a reminder that

life is suffering.

Healing Journey

There is a wound somewhere,

maybe a bruise somewhere

and when it gets pressed, it is largely mysterious

as to why.

The phone stops ringing,

the kisses stop coming,

the food doesn’t taste so great,

the silence is deafening,

the smell is non-existent, or seemingly so,

the cold is interior-provoking,

and in these moments we are

left to our own devices.

 

Some of us are accompanied

by tendrils of incomplete story-lines,

spirits that crave to be beckoned,

it is so much to crawl out of bed,

sometimes, and so easy to look at those

who jump toward their destines,

and feel like we are failures.

Then there are those who see us,

trying our best to move out of the mindset

of being a victim,

offering up ourselves and our experience as the expression

of trying, of strength,

and that is defined differently by every person.

 

Tonight, a wound was pressed, and my story was told:

I am lonely. I live in a house without heat. This is

what I can afford. I did not pay attention in school.

I looked at a reflection of myself, upside-down in the bathroom mirror

and cried,

and considered that I could dance.

And considered compassion.

And if we aren’t kind to the sprouts of ourselves,

how can we ever nurture our spirit to become a tree?

And this is where I’m at,

it is progress that I am not destroyed by a thought.