Each day is a rewrite of the rest so far.
Today, I write myself patient.
I give myself breaths that fill my lungs
like two plump balloons.
I float rather than walk.
When I open my mouth,
the sound of light rain on leaves comes out.
If it hurts where the skin is stitching back together,
I name it lovely and divine.
When I look at myself,
I do not use words like broken, or burned;
in fact, I try not to use words at all.
Tomorrow, I will be angry again.
I will name the violence in and around me,
make my own fire and watch what lights up.
I will not be afraid of hearing, of creating, dissonance.
But first, I need a bed as soft as a night sky.
I need the harmony of breath.
I need a peace so deep
I may move in and out
without kicking up the mud,
without making a ripple.