Sister, draw you down the Moon. Stand naked before her. Be not afraid, but stand fierce in your glory.
Let her fill your veins, bless you with grace and bathe you in mysteries. Let her rule your tides and drink in all your sins. Offer her your blood and songs and she will be your mirror; she will show yourself to you.
I am empty. The purity of potential, the zero at the beginning. I sit and feel, the rain beats my heart into sweet submission and I am nothingness, I am a vessel. A void. The tears come, punctuating my apathy and I am a cloud dripping sweet nothingnesss onto the floor, and I am grasping for something but there is only the purity of potential.
And I stayed, and I stayed in my body. I felt it all. I stayed and I breathed and I hurt, I cried, I remembered. This is what it is to release trauma from your body. I hurt and I cried, I remembered and I felt and I made space, so much space for love, and that love rushed in and I became who I was, before. And that pain, and that love, it became my art. I found the sweetness in suffering, I made a home in it, and I knew I would stay in that sweetness always.
In hell your tears do not cleanse you but burn your face like acid, and your anger is a futile, impotent shadow of itself, and you are reminded with every step of your insignificance. You shrink, you shrivel, you watch helplessly as pieces of you blacken and die and fall to the ground to rot. Still you search the skies.
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