You have my word

One word can change your life.

Tag: outdoors

I will not be beautiful for someone else

screen-shot-2016-12-16-at-8-12-45-pm

I am tired. I am broken violets in a vase that hasn’t had water for days. I am cut at the base of a very long stem – growing bent under the weight of others’ sins carried on the wind. How do you grow up when you cannot see the sun? Cannot feel the heat on your leaves? No warmth in the day? No moon at night?

I die. My roots growing further into the earth trying to bury my alive. When I am hiding perhaps I’ll survive. Only dirt is seen by the naked eye, but I…

I grow silently beneath the soil. I wrap all my limbs around rocks that told me I couldn’t and hold them so tightly. They anchor me. I tell them my secrets hoping my stories will bounce back with an echo of truth I don’t already know. I am only a seed below.

Scattered. Like dust. Shattered. Like someone just put me here and expected me to be something beautiful. Something for show. A feature in a building they call home.

It’s a house made of aging bones and hollow noises and records that play on too-loud speakers because why fix a thing that isn’t completely broken? Yet. It’s only a little out of shape. The music is still in time. In time.

In time. My heart no longer beats in time to the right rhythm. Broken violets in a thirsty vase asking for questions to be asked. Why keep them if they’re dead? What if they rot?

I’m not saying they’re entirely ineffectual – I’m a conversation starter at least. What will they speak about with a flowerless mantlepiece? Will they even miss me?

Not planted or picked for display. Just somewhere. A seed. Growing my own way and looking for the light.

Dreams and beasts burning hotter than the stars

pexels-photo-91988

She is alone. This has been her fear all along. It is dusk on an open road and mountains and unmoving turbines and the moon.

There are more miles between here and there than she cares to admit. She won’t admit anything. The abandonment. The inadequacy. The wedding that shouldn’t have been. The affair. The family. The abuse. The divorce. The abandonment. The abandonment. The child in her arms that isn’t hers.

There are many beasts that walk these streets – bigger and burning hotter than the stars. The scars on her hands show how busy broken messy busy broken she has kept herself. She has kept herself. To herself. Toward herself. Away from herself. Abandonment. Tired. So tired.

She is alone. Alive but alone and what is living when you can’t hear another heart beating?

On slow love and instant coffee

pexels-photo-41135

She reads the instructions on instant coffee labels and leaves bite marks on shoulders between sheets and sweat. She is not one for you to try understand but rather one to be understood by, for when she plants you in her nail beds like seeds you will never cease to grow.

She will leave you wild, but not unkempt for she knows you can fend for yourself. She also knows that the vines you keep hidden should never grow thick and twisted enough to trip and strangle the ones closest to you. She is closer still – a stem, your spine. She is in the fibre and fight of your roots burrowing, burying what is gone because together… together you rest in peace with roots that run this deep.

You will bud and blossom into everything she touches. And she will touch you. Not like Midas turning everything into gold, but turning you green and full of life. She will uproot what’s dead and convince even your weeds to grow flowers and dandelions. She will pull out the thorns like an affliction you’ve carried far too long – too afraid to let go, too afraid of having empty hands.

With her you will never lack; you will never be empty-handed or thirsty for water and adventure. She sows life back into you from the soil where you soul sleeps. In letting her prune, you are learning to give up control.

While this might explain the bite marks on your shoulder, it will also explain the parts of yourself you don’t recognise. It will explain how you become comfortable in being quiet before the storm – preparing to weather the chaos in your branches and host the thrash alongside the beating of your heart. Bleed the noise into your delicate collapsible veins. Know that the risk exists, that the possibility of being poisoned is very real but worth it.

So when she offers to make you coffee the morning after, and you know it is not French press, slow-brewed or freshly-ground, do not doubt her. Do not second guess her judgement or retract your trust like a daffodil in too harsh sunlight. Let her soak into your skin.

Let her nourish you, regardless of the coffee. She will feed you full and then feast on you as both her garden to tend to and her greener pasture in the South. She will look after you and lose herself in your promise. She will never neglect the tender trimming nor will she get tired of the great outdoors. You are great. You are growing. You are giving.

She is grateful. So she kisses you.

I am powerful because I can be broken

photo-1452723312111-3a7d0db0e024

I believe that some people were made to break things. I believe that others were just meant to break – to break down – to break apart – to be broken. Like how a child builds a castle made of sand close enough to tempt the ocean waves. The truth is, it was never going to stand but they wait until the water can no longer hold itself back – till it lashes at the structure in swells and still has the nerve to go back and lick the wounds with smaller ripples. I have never seen such joy derived from such destruction. The smile on that child’s face when the walls are torn back to earth like it was his own will that did the breaking.

I am that sandcastle. I am built of things that were never meant to stand. Others have built what they thought would last, filling me with stones and shells. But the waves will come. And they do. And they crash. And they tumble. And they tear down. And they break. They break me. Everyone is a wave waiting to break me. I am made to break – to break down – to break apart – to be broken. I wait.

I wait to be watered down in the most violent way possible like the sea swallows the sand and eventually the child. Everyone is a wave and I do not stand a chance. I do not stand a chance against the man on the corner of the street watching me walk by on my way home. I do not stand a chance against the crowd with gleaming teeth outside the bar I stumble out of. I do not stand a chance against the women I let into my bed with other people’s skin still under their fingernails. I do not stand a chance against myself with my twisted hands and shamed skin made of sand.

I was one of those born with the power to be broken and not to do the breaking. Yes, a power to be broken – that’s a power – a super power even! Can you imagine having to build yourself up after everything has warred against you in hopes of tearing you down? Sometimes they win; sometimes I lose. But I get up again and build, and do not allow myself to crumble until the next wave hits. Power is getting up over and over despite the knowledge that destruction will come.

I am powerful because I can be broken. I am powerful because I do not leave myself this way – I pick myself up every day. I am powerful because I know I have done it myself. I am powerful because, in spite of their best attempts to crush me in the worst way, I do not back down. I am powerful because even though I know I was not built to stand – being made of sand – I plant myself as firmly as I can until they come. I am powerful because I do not break them in the same way. I am powerful because I have been broken and I continue to stand.