Goddess.

The Leaves trickle down like they’re trying to be closer to her. They want to be near the girl that was broken, a ghost, a wisp in this world. They want to be closer to the girl that reconstructed herself into an empire. They want to be nearer the girl who has set bridges on fire.

The Wind shakes loose her hair into the wide blue abyss. It’s dying to touch her, the girl who became a walking myth. It’s dying to taste her firey skin and take away something just as strong into the next city. The Wind wants to be as strong as this woman has come to be.

She died multiple times until she was a shadow that slipped along walls. She slowly gained piece after piece and rearranged them this time. Into someone stronger, kinder, more divine.

The Moon waxes as if it wants to be as big as she is, too. The Moon used to be bigger but so also, did you.

The bare branches shiver when I walk by. They recognize someone tall, strong, a force that won’t hide. The Earth around me has welcomed me as It’s equal. I am somehow stronger after all this summer time. Somehow I know Winter is not my enemy this time around; that she can’t hurt me now that I’m not a ghost. She can’t bury me not that I’ve been found.

The Thief and The Cheat.

It’s a flannel button up that’s too big for my frame. I took it before the hate set in, before everything went up in smoke and flames.

I’m not sure if it reminds me of sadder times or not, although I know it wasn’t mine to take, this flannel shirt was not my first or last mistake.

I am the Thief and he is the Cheat. We work best when we aren’t in the same vicinity. We feed off each other’s venom and brew toxicity. He can’t tell the truth and all I can do is flee. And take my favorite shirt with me.

It’s faded blue worn like it was meant for only me. It’s Winter now and I wear it more often than someone sane would do. I wear it to quell a memory. Or two.

I am the Thief and he is the Cheat. I begged for more lies to help staunch the wound. He acquiesced, it’s the least he could do. We mixed in our favorite torments to make this toxic brew. He couldn’t form the truth in his lovely mouth and I couldn’t stand to stand up for myself.

I’m warm in the shirt that wasn’t mine to take. A thief that continually made mistake after mistake.

He may miss it, he may not. A cheat that never wins. More than flannel was got.

Doe.

There is a wounded doe who sometimes shows up inconspicuously at my door step. She’ll quietly nudge until I finally see, she’s hurt and hopes I’ll heal her wounded knees.

She is the victim of hunters and forests, after all. She can’t possibly be simple minded, wrong, or at fault.

There is a doe that seeks out the traps that they lay hidden in tall grass. She’s just sure if she bleeds enough that this time they’ll take it all back. But a hunter hides in all the dappled light knowing he will never be seen. She’ll rampage through the forest thinking maybe this time he’ll leave her be.

She crumples and falls to the hardened earth with a horrible sound. She’ll come bleeding to me because the scars from my hunt are visible in the right light. She wants to know how I escaped, was it always like this, was he ever nice?

Little Doe, you now know all of the tricks of his trade. You know the orange vest, the look of his traps, the smell of his bait. You look silly filled with bullet holes where you love to be shot.

Little Doe, a hunter is a hunter and he will shoot you until you’ve been got. Don’t show up at my door dripping blood. Don’t stain my floors with lessons you haven’t learned and ears that don’t hear.

You want to be mounted on his wall deep down, I know. It’s okay, Little Doe, I know. We can’t all be the buck so stay a silly little doe.

Dad.

He taught me how to swing. He built an oasis for me high up in my favorite tree. He is the force of nature that raised me fierce and raised me wild. I would be nothing if I wasn’t his child.

My stubborn streak, my defiant will, my brown eyes that can kill, these are my father’s and they are mine. We are the same, him and I.

He’s a tilted tower here in this hospital bed. He’s my mountain laying small and I don’t want to ever remember this picture in my head.

He’s the force behind a hurricane. You’ll need to duck and cover, against him, you will not win. He is fight and never fail. He is raucous laughter, the safest hugs, he is both the hammer and the nail.

He isn’t the man in the hospital bed. He isn’t the pain painted all over his face. He is a god among men, the reason my bar is exceptionally high. This man has always been my hero, the one who taught me to survive. The only man to love me, stay with me, teach me and has always been kind. Dear Dad, I am eternally grateful to have you always by my side.

Pleas.

I’ve forgotten to breathe without you squeezing my lungs. I’ve forgotten to be me without you here holding up those smoking guns.

Cause, babe, don’t you see, you were the life coursing through me and my blood has gone dry just like the water from my eyes, don’t you see? ‘Cause Darling, I’d give everything for you to come back to me.

Those radio singles that haunted me on every drive, well, they don’t play anymore and my passenger side has been missing a specific pair of mischievous eyes.

‘Cause, Love, don’t you see, you were a ghost always haunting, you were the air that I breathed, the man watching over me –Lover, don’t you see? I’d give anything to bring you back to me.

These memories are fading –hazy in the making and, for you, I feverishly write so you don’t have to die twice.

‘Cause, Baby, I’m missing the parts of you in me and I need to empty the ink so neither you, nor me, forget these things. Oh, Derek, don’t you see? I’d give back everything to bring you back to me.

 

Golden.

It’s a golden age I’m in. With sage hanging in my window and a warm mug in my hands. My phone lighting up from messages from a charismatic, handsome, kind man.

This golden age has to be made. The stones turned over until I began to find little nuggets of that gold I was searching for. Heaven isn’t where you are, it’s what you make, and oh Darling, from my skin, gold pours.

I’m in a golden hue where the whips of icey wind don’t chill my skin. I’m alive, I’m magnetic and I’m burning flames within.

A fire sign wasn’t meant for wallowing waters but for a spark to catch, a golden flame that will climb higher and higher. I am flames. I am fire.

I’m in an epic era of a life I love to live. A small smile because I know the Universe had to let me drown so I could learn to swim. I am grateful for all the pain She has had to give.

I am ages older somehow and the things that hurt me seem so small now. When they come to me seeking soothing I have to remember they are paddling in shallow waters and I am pulling water through my gills.

I am the ocean, now. The waves come in and I am their ebb. I am their flow.

I am in my own golden age and the Universe has taught me how to let it all go.

Sorry Again.

That bended knee never seems quit as humble as what you had hoped. It never seems as charming when it’s real.

In your dreams it’s dashing and handsome, an apology that makes your broken heart start to heal.

But when it’s in your face, or on your phone, it seems so small. Shallow. It’s not what you had hoped for and maybe that’s because you’ve grown.

You just needed reality to settle in with a crooked smile and a half ass “I’m sorry.” A dirty boot on your clean floors. You just needed this moment to be real to remind you why you showed him the door.

It’s not his fault I don’t do second chances anymore. It’s not his fault I hate the word “sorry.” It’s not his fault he couldn’t be right, it’s someone else’s, it’s not even mine.

I needed that feeble chinned apology when I was laying in the dark wondering how sick a man could be. I realize now that I just don’t accept anymore “sorry’s.”

Short.

Life is short, they say.

Save all your worries and fears for another day. Live your dreams and follow your fears. Don’t stop trying until you’re gone from here.

Life is short, they say.

I didn’t know what that meant. Then you were killed September 28.

Life is short, they say.

Live loudly and boldly. Always hug your mother and always say your prayers.

Life is short, they say.

Forgive the past and let it go. Allow happiness to guide your souls. I knew they were crazy for spitting all this positivity into my face.

Life is short, they say.

Then you were killed on September 28.

I didn’t know 29 was young, because you see, I felt like we were growing old. I let you go, like we always did, I knew you’d be mine again. We always ended up together without being told.

He was mine, you see. He was always part of me. We did this insidious thing where we’d drift apart but we always came back, him and me.

Life is short, they say.

I didn’t know what that meant until September 28. Part of me died that day.

Now I feel the shortness in my bones. I live my life as if I didn’t turn to stone. I let my skin soak in the sun and feel every feeling I can until I’m dripping with emotions and the sun has long gone. I had to cut off the rotting parts I had let grow into my soul, I’ve made a point of living as if I won’t grow old.

Like him.

Life is short, they say.

Don’t forget to live your life today.

Peace.

Peace settles into the finest cracks that have riddled my body. It lays like a blanket over the cold parts and softens the calloused ones.

Letting go has led me here, to a place where my mind has come to terms with the loveliest parts of my soul.

Briars and thorns are part of the tapestry, as are sandpaper vocal cords and dried salt water from over the years.

So are little fingers tangling in my hair, now big kids with arms around my neck. So are flower dresses that whoosh in the wind. The smell of coconut and smiles, a photo reel of all the places I have been.

A heavy tapestry that decorates my walls and tells the story of who I am, was, imperfections and all.

The peace that is now wholly a part of who I am has sealed the fabric that was wearing thin. This peace that I had to teach myself to thread has saved my very life again and again.