to you that lacks god in between your eyes
I might look like I’m dying
or perhaps you call me a crazy woman.
the world is not accustomed to this kind of death.
We mourn bodies, we mourn what’s no longer there to feed us, to give us some thing
We refuse to meet the dying that permeates our small lives,
You crave to be so alive, desperate for more light, for more noise.
We worship Sun, noise, we worship brightness, Perfection is the god we seek and our waking lacks in prayer
We worship those that validate our chase for happiness for more for promises.
We forget the holy in darkness.
To you that gifted yourself to some sort of safety
to you that married an illusion of hope
I might look like I’m drowning. Sinking into earth or the sea
stunned by my refusal to float, to keep to surface.
It is my choice to dissolve
Don’t hamper my Dying.
and to those that grip on to my pieces
begging me to embody a coherent self that they can understand
I will burn the hands that hinder my dissolve.
We validate a dying that can be seen and understood. that we can grasp
that we can smell. a dying that is easy to mourn.
and yet our daily Death within is grieving our attention
grieving skins shed
cocoons abandoned and homes
and
grieving the structures and the countries and the bonds that somehow kept me breathing
It is my choice to dissolve. I can no longer be another’s dream, I am no longer yielding.
my grounding labels definitions boxes are no longer able to contain me
being spilled out, the great unfolding, I seek to become
name-less, utterly emptied out
spaciousness
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