Previously published in Illumination, February 2021.

She looked at her cuticles scratched and torn, her knuckles scraped and crusted with hardened blood that had dried and darkened from all the years of quietly clawing her way out while everyone else slept.

Her voice was

hoarse

from speaking her truth

over and over

in the same words and different ones,

all of which never landed but hung instead in the thick air: distraught, surrendered, homeless.

And her feet …

they still couldn’t move

except for on the same path she walked in a robot-like fashion: in motion, yet emotionless.

Every once in a while she felt herself lift a heavy hand to straighten the smile she had stuck on her face like a vinyl sticker,

her fingertips numb and unsure of the landscape there.

She knew she was meant for more.

She knew she was made for more.

She knew she couldn’t give up on the one who was always there for her:

herself.

She knew she couldn’t give up on the heart that stayed strong for her no matter what:

her own.

So she let the tears fall

sometimes slowly

and sometimes a downpour

and she tasted them as they cradled her lips as if to apologize on the way down.

She stared straight ahead and kept her eyes on her dreams no matter how blurry it was

or how much it stung

or how no one else could see them.

She heard the voices aimed at her but the sounds bounced around and made no sense,

not because they were nonsensical

but because they came from bodies who didn’t understand her

and carried words she couldn’t taste.

So instead she spoke to the angels.

She spoke to the Spirit.

She leaned her head back

and inhaled her worthiness

and exhaled courage.

She breathed in love

She breathed out love

She paused.

She breathed in love

She breathed out love

She listened.

She breathed in love

She breathed out love

She breathed

and she loved

herself.