to my dance teacher

twist my body into

shapes that look more

beautiful than the

shapes she makes of

me,

please

Advertisements

selfish heroism

I walk in to an empty house –
the first time in a long time that the space around me promises its vacancy.
This is hard to grasp hold of as lately any company feels empty.

I do the things I know to do but do them meaninglessly.
I scrub my body clean,
let the hot water sink in,
slip it into cleaner clothing.

Checkmarks on a checklist but nothing more than this.

And then it is time to dry my hair.
So I sit cross-legged in front of this pain inducing mirror –
the first time in a long time that I sit face to face with my own reflection.

This is when I feel it.

I feel the ache in my bones,
the stabbing in my chest,
the soreness of muscles that are tired from lifting the world onto them.


So I look into the eyes that stare back at me –
the pain in them much too hard to realize.
I look at her and whisper,

“You are strong.
You are beautiful.

Look at the things you’ve created,
the people you’ve loved,
the things you’ve done.

You are determined, a fighter –
growing beyond even the things you know of. 

You are magnificent

And I swore that in that moment she lifted her chin higher,
and thanked me.

the sunshine cleaning

I call you beautiful and welcome you home.

Before you come, I climb up on all the tables to reach the windows and let the light in. I walk the five miles to my favourite flower shop to buy the lavender and the snapdragons. I hang the art I started making the day I stopped crying. I fix the cushions. I make the bed for you.

But there is pain here. There is damage underneath the bedsheets. Holes behind the artwork. I buy new flowers every morning because they all die daily.

And I keep stumbling upon messes I forgot to clean up.