I think to myself,
With the whirly-twirly madness of the world,
With my forearms resting against sore ribs,
With my head aching while I try to explain,
How this feels —
I think to myself:
“But what if I’m wrong?”
“But what if I’m right?”
“What dreams can the dreamer girl drink tonight, to wash the questions away, into a raw, real, red-rash day?”
My arms rest against ribs covered by a wrinkled, almost scratchy jumpsuit, that sometimes I wear as pajamas at my parents house.
I think about how red-rashes scream for attention, so much so that we scratch them raw. It’s so very real.
When was the last time, I said all the things that are real?
The air is hot in this room, and my mind croons against this soft thinking space, where I feel safe and not so safe all at the same time.
It’s strange how Christmas can make you think of things you’re grateful for.
It’s strange how my mind is contemplating, circulating a new love…
This time, this time.
This time of year is built for family,
I wonder what his Christmas will be like, I wonder if the universe knows that it’s human inhabitants,
Wait for the festival of light, while we wave out the night, of this year?
I think of people I loved once.
I wonder, vaguely, honestly, if they’re safe.
What an underrated thing safety is in love, in any love, in family, friend or romantic love.
The safety of love is a sanctity held between at least two…
This year, it’s been global.
2020, the year of global love?
2020, the year that hurt.
2020, the year that makes me think of everyone I’ve ever loved,
Wishing them the sanctity of safety in love…if even for a moment,
To catch a breath of peace,
Against unleashed chaos,
If you must stand with harm by your side,
Reminding you that humans never have much time,
Then I wish you a moment of feeling safe, in the arms of someone you love,
In the arms of someone you love –
I wish you love, this Christmas.