Heart Lines from the Reliquary
from a doing heart
I’m still lining to 4 frequently lately. It’s such a mess. My heart feels broken… it’s never felt so useless; so ineffectual… and I hide it, but I cannot hide myself. In a moment of intense grief I swear I’ll take some time away. I won’t reply to comments for a few days, I’ll stay off the server. I’ll sit in this. I’ll hide myself. I say, but never do.
The shame is then intensified. I claim I’m surrounded by the shallow hearted; is mine the one stuck wading here? I’m trying to explore these crevices, but if I stop for a moment and become the puddle I’ll cease to exist in an instant. Without babies to care for I become the barren mother, empty wombed; seeds that only bleed, I become nothing. Recognition of my need for you disgusts me. I was the one who needed. To even exist. I was the wailing orphan.
Post Script
🩸
Post Script 🩸
This was written and the collage created fast and feverishly… so I could leave it raw; so I could spare it from editing into something unrecognizable from where it began. Vulnerability is a muscle; not atrophied; never developed from the genesis of my being. It’s short, but the impact perforates the fibers.
