I am in tears

as her brutal soliloquy

muses upon the myriad

ways I have irritated her

these long months.  I experience

a similar sensitivity to

the harsh chemicals used to deterge

bathrooms and kitchen counters,

the burn

closing my throat.

As my body orchestrates

the litany

you don’t belong,

I summon the wise woman

of my future, the elder whose sole

intent is to save the planet,

and we hold space

for the hurting children

who never quite grasp

the rules and are always

inescapably in harm’s way.

This new present I create

is spacious and inclusive;

every distressed, inflamed

piece no longer resisted.

Embracing what is

with a slow and careful love

flowing over these obstructions

and welcoming them back home.

Even as I say

no more

and close the curtains

on her act — her voice

dwindling until her projections

slide into her own awareness,

perhaps —

I celebrate

myself in all of my glorious


fucking beautiful

mess, thankful

for the unexpected gifts

of angels,


to allow

the magic of integration.


Inspired by:  Deterge, Soliloquy,  Belong, and Orchestrate.