your words

are printed in my poetry

I quote you

when I don’t even mean to.

I, miss, you,

and I don’t know

what

to-do

with

that.

i suspect

my unconscious self is
afraid of everything
falling apart. somehow i started to
believe that fear was the string
needed to hold everything together.

that
that tension would
keep everything in place. if
i just worried about it enough,
everything would be just
fine & dandy.

i didn’t know that fear needed me to survive,
not the other way around.

i didn’t know that i need change
like i need air.

don’t be afraid

to give importance to someone

it’s a privilege these days

to meet someone new and old in person

to have the time to really get to know them

face-to-face

spontaneous conversation.

when did connection become about a literal spark?

missing you

(though I don’t think we’ve met yet)

and that good ol’ fashioned lightning.

it’s silly

that we wait till goodbyes to spend time together

to celebrate what is between us

only in leaving

never underestimate

the power of a warm drink and an unlikely friend

 

Your vulnerability

feels like failure,
before you’ve heard the resounding gong of acceptance,
before the masses have called it a success,

so choose the things you would do regardless.

instructions: hand-wash

The washing machine did not come into

work this week

We thought it’d be an unraveling,

an undone

bundle on our shoulders

instead

it was a seam in solidarity

with women of past and present

a string pulling us back in time and across the globe –

however small of a tug a week of experience can muster

slipping out of mind

and into hands for

soap

water &

escaping pockets of air in

the wringing of crisscrossed fibers,

We thought only machine could do

this. Did we forget about before

machine? When we were merely

human at the stream.

The strength of our hands, women we are

crisscrossed souls

in the fabric of existence.

A cord of three is stronger than one.

An interweaving of queen, infinite is

the strength spooled through

generation and place knit into a powerful

shawl for all occasions.

“Brené Brown: Why Your Critics Aren’t The Ones Who Count”

the boy who didn’t know how to ask

“can i play with you?”

instead, poured water on us, until one of us asked…

“do you want to play with us?”