the year of becoming.
of letting go of the let go, of loving myself
into an existence i can finally understand.
when they tell you that you feel too much, let them.
you always will.
it’s not easy carrying all this weight; set it down, armor and all.
humans are not meant to love with an agenda.
arranging words like important dates: birthdays, anniversaries, deaths;
it’s a practice with which we are cutting out the best parts of ourselves for
people who will not understand how to stay.
the year of being where my feet are — every step, honest, real, with sincere love.
the year of technicolor sounds, a memory of people we once knew
who, now, we would cross the street to pass
but would regret it later.
the year of not regretting it later.
the year of saying hello, of asking them how they are
no matter the hurt we feel.
because healing is messy.
we humans, we are messy.
the year of bruising for people who aren’t around to see it.
the year of soul growing, of removing scar tissue
for skin and loving every second of it.