The Things I Carry, Part 3
I wonder why the phrase is I suffer
When it really should be I live
I have to learn to be okay with being a little broken
I have to take my time to heal and know my heart will never be the same.
We are meant to survive what we are given
So I say I live and not I suffer
Because to live with it means it is part of me
But I am part of it
I’ll go back and forth and sit with it
That’s all this is, it’s life
I will learn to love it
I Could Write About the Rain
I could write about the rain.
I could write about wet umbrellas,
About the keys in my coat pocket,
The puddles around the bean boots on my feet.
I could write about how for the first time in a long time, I am learning to trust my muscles.
I could write how I am learning, again, to swim.
These Mixed-Up Pieces, Part II
The flames don’t last forever,
I tell myself, stitch the sinews and put each piece of china back in place.
I am a mosaic of mixed up pieces,
Of scars and lines and my life,
Tattooed to my heart like the sun across the sky, my story smoothed by time and a thousand eyes reading, reading.
I am a painting, built from layers, scrubbed over and made clean to be built again.
I am a survivor.
The dusk of the days are longer.
The sun sets at seven instead of eight again.
I take myself to Alphabet City on Tuesdays and watch the garden on East 9th Street grow.
Every day, I walk my life toward change.
I should remember,
Life is only a summer storm.
The heat and the fire and the wind come quickly,
And if one can stand the rain –
It is cool and quiet and peace,
On the other side.