If we are all crazy women,
Actually crazy. Minds that tricks us, and minds that allow us to create marvelous sketches of the cracks in the walls of the places we have made home.
If we can with our tongues and mouths and breaths describe to the blindness in us the reasons why everything we have made is valuable,
If we can hear the voices and let them know that our voice is louder though,
And maybe we are altos and sopranos and maybe we whisper but it is ours and it is the one we hear.
If we can, crank up the music and feel the pulses in our limbs, beating and convincing, always persuading us to remember and to capture when it was we allowed ourselves to exhale,
And maybe not hold our breaths just now.
When we, crazy ones, are able to stop chasing and simply enjoy what we have caught,
If we can look at our reflections and hold eye-contact and maybe not be the one to break it first, defiantly warning our reflections that this time they would have to reach through mirrors that are not broken and place palms over our eyes because we are willing to see what we are, and
We will not be looking away first this time. And we will not be bowing our heads to her gaze and our faces are cracked and our eyes are old and we
Pulse, beat, and sketch those cracks because
They are there-- but the walls are strong and we have
Made this home.