There are moments when I feel like our bodies are, but

living sculptures;

flesh and bone born within

porcelain skin and

hairline fractures

 

My dear,

if you keep eyes on me.

I'll show you the pieces that

keep you together.

 

Look back.

Do you remember the nights

when you curl up

and forget the meaning of sleep

and the moments where

if you were quiet enough

you could hear your chest rattle?

Those are the shards of your past self,

the shrapnel.

You watch them shimmer

and wonder

if you were broken.

 

I often find that these pieces

are not stained,

but adorned

with stories of survival

and visions of healing.

I know you can still feel them—

in your very being—still

pulsing, growing,

floating, breathing.

Your body is a vessel for life

and the things most hoped for.

 

Never forget this.

 

In fact, your body won't allow it.

Your stories are waiting

inside of you;

humming, buzzing

sparking, and jiving.

Open your mouth!

Spread your fingers!

Release them!

Let your voice crescendo

and rival petty tidal waves.

Allow your tears to flow

in gold-laced streams.

You deserve it.

Your  growth

will happen in increments

your love,

in degrees

Hold nothing back

and remind the air of

your very existence