Self-Love

Something is broken—

can you feel it too?

I didn’t hear the snap though—

did you?

That evening when we watched Beef—

they were having

Mangosteen—

and I,

I moved myself

away

(from you)

They said:

“don’t spread your brokenness.”

Self-love

(that beautiful bandage)

They chant it

everywhere.

But the self—

my self—

was not aware of Self

until now.

You see.

You know me.

There were

too many loves

to pour myself into—

I’ve been busy.

And being busy

always healed me.

I practiced love

like breathing.

Unaware

I was even doing it.

I loved—

full

half

empty

I loved—

broken, tattered, ghoulish.

I loved—

prose,

poetry,

anything on the margin.

I loved—

yellow, white, pink, blue—

anything

the sky dragged down

with it.

“You should seek therapy,”

you said.

I listened.

I agreed.

I showed up.

I was aware—

so aware—

of what I carry.

But they tried

to rewire me.

Rewrite me.

Reprogram

my galaxy

of love.

They know nothing of pain.

They call it trauma.

I call it love.

On certain days,

I feel

my breath.

Exactly.

Where it starts.

Where it ends.

And on those days—

I think:

Maybe it isn’t me that’s broken.

Everything.

Everywhere.

is breaking.

Was broken—

since the very big bang.

And still—

I’ve stood

still.

My constellations

I hold them close.

My rivers

I let them flow.

I do not build dams.

I do not harvest the fruits.

I let the birds sing.

I let the alligators eat.

I let the cheetah chase.

I let the grasshopper play the fiddle.

I let the ants gather.

I listen—

intently—

on the ground.

And I

feel

whole.