the year is done. I spend the last three hundred sixty-five days before me on the living room carpet.
here is the month i decided to shed everything not deeply committed to my dreams. the day i refused to be a victim to the self -pity, here is the week i slept in the garden. the spring i wrung my the self- doubt by its neck. hung your kindness up. took down the calendar . the week i danced so hard my heart learned to float above water again. the summer i unscrewed all the mirrors from the walls. no longer needed to see myself to feel seen. combed the weight out of my hair.
i fold the good days up and place them in my back pocket for safekeeping. draw the match. cremate the unnecessary. the light of the fire warms my toes. i pour myself a glass of warm water to cleanse myself for january. here i go. stronger and wiser into the new.
YOU ARE READING
ρσємѕ
Poetrythis is the recipe of life said my mother as she held me in her arms as i wept think of those flowers you plant in the garden each year they will teach you that people too must wilt fall root rise in order to bloom - rupi kaur
