To the star sparkle shine,

the artists, the dwellers,

the mystics.

To those that tried, even though it got fumbled and tangled.

For a minute, for a second, I thought it wasteful to

step into my own skin–you worked hard, albeit blundered-to

thrust me into more.

Silly child, the whispers came, will you make it more?


My 5 year old son still wets the bed at night

and his Father does not beat him like the story

my own father tells over and over again.

I sat in classrooms and still forgive and integrate the parents that burnt and salted and destroyed attachments

because, well, because life is short

and my soul always loves a great redemption story

it simply cannot help itself. 

To the brown skinned fathers and boys, mothers and girls who had to fight.

To the gardeners and stargazers and the chicken raisers.

To the mama who doesn’t get me, never has, AND showers me with sacred love ever still.

We don’t have to know all the answers.

I exist.

I breathe.

My skin feels comfortable.

What more could you have wanted for me?