I am a creature of dirt and dust.
My body is the stem and my soul the bloom.
I am a creature of darkness and moonlight
My smile is the glow and my heart is the gentle night.
I am a creature of soft touches and deep kisses.
A whisper that starts a fire and a touch that draws cold deep water.
I am a creature both timid and bold. Straddling the razor’s edge line between desire and realism.
I am balance placed precariously.
Pride entwined with loathing.
I am perfection cast in flaws.
I am petal soft and thorn covered.
I am a creature of torrents and lightning, of a soft breeze on a warm day.
I am sunlight on skin, and ice on lips.
I am words to a song, you can’t help but forget.
I am a creature bonded to bone and tethered to the earth.
I often wonder
If I was made broken
Or if life broke me.
Are the bonds I find so firmly affixed upon my heart of my own device?
Or is each one simply a memory I can’t shake?
People say you find yourself, in those quiet times alone.
But more often than not I find a vacancy.
A place where I should rightfully be, but I am not.
In lieu are the thousands of reflections of moments. Perfect and imperfect alike.
Scattered between deep fractures.
Cracks split so deeply into the truth of me that I think I must be endless.
Was I born broken?
Or was I born to break?
Sometimes I don’t write anything for a long while. As if I am saving up my letters, and gathering them into a garden of words. Not until they’re ready to bloom do I have the chance to express them. As those words grow and fruit I reap the harvest of their essence. I crush them down into thick pulp and gather their dewy sweet juices. Only then may I sip their muse, and sometimes, as if a drunkard, spew it back into the world. The pulp however is a much overlooked but precious refuse. For from the crushed and broken meat of inspiration spring the seeds to start another garden. Perhaps less melancholy than my own.