I see you.

Sitting on the grass in the sun as the wind spirals around you; born in your roots, unfurling in your curls, raised in the lengths of your hair.

I see you. 

I think you might’ve forgotten: you aren’t just a play-thing for the wind, you are the wind. And I see it. 

I see what’s sitting there, a fraction below your earth’s surface.

A seed pressing at the line between soil and sun; the universe that lives between inhale and exhale. 

The lid that is straining at the clasp; you’ve wrapped around your heart rubber bands and ribbons and a frail bit of string you found on the ground, kicking between the cracks in the concrete below your feet. I saw you pick it up, hoping no one noticed. I saw you tie it around your treasure chest of hurt, hoping no one noticed you were struggling to keep it closed.

I see you at the bottom of the pinot grigio bottle.

I see you look at the clock in the morning, unable to think of a reason to actually get out of bed. 

I see you slide down the wall of the shower, naked, so fucking naked, praying that the warm, lukewarm, cold water will wash you clean.

I see you.

And I take a little broken, ugly piece of what you are up against. 

I hold it and love it and nourish it and slowly, slowly, slowly watch it shed the unused skin. Rebirth. Hope. Love. 

And maybe you don’t think ‘content’ is love, but I do. The words of warrior women have pulled me from the brink. The magic of music has kept me sane. 

Watching women grasp the spotlight and turn up the brightness on their flaws until they glow on life’s stage, after all this time, still reminds me how to live.

And taking hold of it myself has given me reason to.