The way you couldn’t let go of the woman’s voice in the grocery store and how it caught when she said hello, like it was a lie,
the way you knew that all he wanted was to be the father that his father could not be,
that it meant the world to him to have his little boy call him “Daddy,” and mean it.
Oh. They applauded you. They encouraged you. They told you it was a gift, that you should embrace it, that your “perspective” was precious and it should be cherished
and you knew, even then,
that it would be a battle to stay alive knowing the things you knew, that you would struggle to make yourself survive the oppressive beauty in this world,
because it would haunt your chest like a thousand ghosts,
and it would haunt your lungs, and your breath and the way you couldn’t help but breathe in all of it at the same time—and that sometimes you would gasp for air and there would be nothing left to breathe.
And you would beg, and you would fall on your knees and they would be scraped and chafed, and you would ask to not feel the water with the tips of your fingers when you dragged them through the riverbeds and over the stones.
You would beg to not notice the ways people displayed their vulnerabilities because you knew,
that it would make your heart beat faster then it should,
and you would see stars at inopportune times, and
the music with words and melodies you could relate to would take you somewhere you shouldn’t go-
And you would be tired. You would be exhausted in recognition of how much there was to do, how much you would not be able to get done,
and you don’t know if it is clinical
if it is spiritual or just the way you are comprised, the puzzle pieces you were given in a velvet bag to
keep putting together
day in and day out,
and you know you can be powerful.
And you know you should be powerful.
That there is nothing stronger than the look and the promise you made to a face in a far away country,
and you know if you don’t honor it the purpose of your life may be compromised
and if you live with melancholy
you kiss your love and you feel her, you see her.
and the mountains make your body light,
but you are constantly overwhelmed with the depth of your privilege
the way you were only concerned about how your body moved and the way it took up space in a room when you wanted to press yourself against the wall and just be invisible, and the way your hair swayed, just so. The softness in the curls against your cheek.
the realization of the privilege in the type of insecurities you indulged in,
and then,
knowing that there are the children in rooms who beg for space, who only want to sit on dusty floors and spread themselves out and be present, and
their awareness of the kinds of depravity humanity has waiting for the ones cast away.
and
you know what it is to
be ashamed of your sadnesses because how could you deserve them when you have only had
soft cotton wrapping your body, and the food that you turned down because you didn’t like the shape it made your body into, and
you never,
considered who would eat—your sister (whom you love) or your son.
You never,
had to choose between walking through a desert with or without your youngest
and you never had to have your body be a weapon for men who were wielding feminity as a thing to break and beat over husbands and brothers as an act of war against an entire country-
sometimes you want to not get up out of your bed, and then you are ashamed because feel the softness beneath your head, how dare you,
when you have feathers cradling you.
and you want to not think of these things
because the beautiful things are there too, and you know
that in order to not collapse and writhe on the floor and to not
turn feverish, and let the infection of what the world is doing to those who are yours (do not be fooled, God damn it, they are you and yours)
you try
to control it so that when you smile at someone dear
and when you say hello,
it is not a lie.
You know you do not get to rest for a few years, perhaps.
Panic. how many years? how many hearts? how many days must I whisper
“Someday I will try harder--
and someday, I will do better. “
