Better

Is there anyone in the world
who has never felt like a bad person?


These are the things you have stolen, you confess:
cookies from a jar when you were three
a couple of twenties from your father’s wallet
an idea from a classmate—
you couldn’t help it;
it was right there
unguarded
a guy your good friend loved.


I’m not who everyone believes I am, you say,
and I reply, It’s okay, I’m not everyone.


These are the things you don’t deserve, you fear:
a clean slate
forgiveness
a place on top of a pedestal,
shining like a trophy perched surely
on a shelf, for everyone
to admire
a happily ever after
the right to make
mistakes.


Your mind clouds with doubt, worry that you will not
be a better woman, but my heart is awash with the well-lit
certainty that you already are.


Know this:
know that this happiness is yours
from now on, always
it has not been handed to you;
it has been earned
through the years you have lived,
built, cared, carried
a vision of greatness inside of you,
through the years you have persisted,
planted your feet firmly on the ground,
gritted your teeth against the sadness,
disappointment, loss—it’s not like
you have been spared of a crushed heart pressed, squeezed
into a chink in the armor half its size so that it would stay
in place, where it belongs—it’s not like
you’ve never been hurt yourself.


And I know you hate it when people say
You Deserve It instead of Congratulations—
because what about the people who worked
hard, tried hard, prayed
hard, fucking wanted it
so much only to watch it evaporate like fish piss; what about them?—
but you deserve it,
you do.


You say, I feel like I will always be trying
to keep the demons on the other side of the gate, and I tell you,
Good. Don’t ever stop.


My mind is wide open, free, and my love is
yours; you don’t need permission to
take it.


You are better now
that the happiness is home
and you can clutch it to your chest
sew it onto your sleeve
wake up to it
breathe it in every minute
tack it up on your bedroom wall
Ziplock it
laminate it
blog about it
write a song about it
write a novel loosely based on it
make a t-shirt out of it
kiss it gently
kiss it awkwardly
kiss it hard
tell it a dumb joke
make it an afternoon snack
bake it a cake
share it with your parents
share it with the world
stay in on Sundays with it
grow old with it
be silent with it
stuff it into your pockets
carry it around with you wherever you go.
You are better now,
don’t fumble.

Strings

We were sewn together as if texture
didn't matter: me, all flannel and mildness
and here, and you, with your leather
palms and mighty plans, a heavy-duty
restlessness outlined on your back.
Nobody ever said this out loud but
in their minds they feared that someday
we would be left clutching at frayed hems
and worn-out edges; in their minds they tried
to warn us when the needle and thread
touched our skin, stitching my sighs
onto yours, weaving all our warmths
into one. In the beginning I kept waiting
for things to fall apart at the seams, but now
there is softness in your searching and
a sturdiness to my stillness, and these days
the way we have come to define peace is,
if we take a closer look, pretty much the
same thing. This is the fabric of us, love—
we have been covered from day one.

On Doubts

“And your doubt can become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become criticism. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perhaps bewildered and embarrased, perhaps also protesting. But don't give in, insist on arguments, and act in this way, attentive and persistent, every single time, and the day will come when, instead of being a destroyer, it will become one of your best workers--- perhaps the most intelligent of all the ones that are building your life.”

God's blessing

I woke up to find that my heart is hushed, and once again, reassured of life's goodness, His goodness; thankful for the blessing that is you.

Missing Piece

"I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are near to me, as now :
it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land, come abroad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you - you'd forget me."  - Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Spontaneous Dance

But isn't this a dance?
Isn't all of this a dance?
Isn't that what we do with words?
Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance?

Some of it is choreographed. 
Some if the steps have been done for ages.
And the rest --
the rest is spontaneous.

The rest should be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.