My grandmother, came to me in a dream. Her words were pouring like syrup. We look nothing alike but we are so alike. Her scent one of my favorite fragrances. Her hands my second home. Her voice filling a whole room. She was mix of rough and soft. A combination of love and water. She reminds me that a woman can change a life. She tells me I’m an army of them.
Who you want to be needs to meet who you are. Not the you that is filtered. Not the you that spends more time on captions than on love letters. Not the you that scrolls more than speaks. Not the one who forgot how to smile unless it’s for a selfie. Not the you that appreciates the sun only when it gives good lighting. The you that just is. The you that will be without a for.
Art will break you before it heals you.
You smell of earth and taste of warmth
I think my ancestors sent you to me.
I cannot be like the moon and only shine enough so that you can be the sun.
I refuse to be like your mother….
Not because she isn’t resilient but because I cannot survive the pain she decorates in lace. She cries alone and your father wears the smell of alcohol like cologne. She puts on her smile like makeup. Her shirt is a mask that covers the bruises. She sometimes breaks down to the ground when she thinks you’re in the shower and cannot hear. She brings you your folded clothes like she’s bringing the parts of her that haven’t been destroyed. She asks you to put it away right away. Just maybe, you have the parts of her that have not died. Your mother like many women deserved a happy ending.
I’m coming back to you.
It will feel like the ripest berry is the sweetest.
It will feel like sleeping in on Sunday mornings.
It will feel like music on a warm night.
It will feel like the ocean greeting your feet.
It will feel like everything that went wrong was what lead you home.