And so I went outside and sat with the rain,
Listening to all she had to say.
She sang a slow, mournful song,
That sounded like everything
I was feeling
And nothing I could say.
Se vale ser vulnerable,
y confesar qué hay días que duelen,
To know thy beauty,
And not speak it
into existence,
Is death itself.
a rebirth of sortsa loss of self, a duality of existence.
it’s 9 months ofplanning, prepping, swelling.
I am having a hard time sitting still.Uncomfortable in my burgeoning body.My pregnant belly…
I am doing it again.The rat race.I am pushing myself to know what’s next,scrambling for yesterday’s crumbs.
I am lostnot yet found
I have found a certain type of solace in the words of other writers.
It’s 4 pm and I’m in bed.
Curled under layers upon layers of blankets,Reading yet another book I’ve managed to buy…