It is just you. And a pulse. And breath.
-Jung said to be alone
to find what supports you
when you can no longer
can give you an
Love doesn’t exist
when it cannot get in or out-
this much I know.
There are degrees of loss and a kind of
when you give too much
take from yourself too much
let too much
cowering from yet hovering over
your gutted pearl–your silence
a shell in the ocean
you try to fill.
You try to fill with someone else’s love,
borrowing and draining them
to pull your own noise into notes
you put love in a box—decoupaged, replicated,
a paint-by-number and absolute
you can’t fit inside it, loose in all that room.
Others wanting pieces of you
you couldn’t part with-so few left-
you think you have to do something to have it,
to feel it, to give it back, borrow it,
swallow it whole until
it finishes and leaves.
You, too small for what you thought love was,
wandering and wandering around with “love me”
on your lips with a hunger, not sadness.
You can’t despair what you do not know.
The hunger is in your fist in your stomach,
and it clenches love notes and grenades.
You burn and burn from emptiness.
You squeeze your fist so hard
so you can keep it, hold it, harness it and own it,
the fire in your gut “here, here I am”
opening and closing around the pain
you believe is you.
The hunger is to be seen.
Too long hiding in your own skin
chasing oceans for your pearl
to put out the fuse
until you tire to
a body, just a pulse, and breath.
Bottomed out to your final denominator,
the fear so big you can’t fight it,
Let. Of all that you were and are,
violent and beautiful in existential space.
You have no choice but to be your first witness,
Feel yourself move. Be just a body,
beating and bleeding and exhaling and in and
“here, here I am” and your fist is empty
and it is terrible and beautiful-
this death and awakening.
You gravitate back towards your center, your gut–
the fear and loss extinguished the fuse,
and a new hunger buds that doesn’t starve
but sustains you.
Time. It takes so much time.
And one morning you will find yourself,
pant legs rolled up, knee-deep in the sea,
plucking treasures from the ocean’s floor
and plunking stones and shells into buckets,
the pearl beneath the surface
slipping unnoticed between your grasping
hands, your fists of sand
dusting back over and burying the
You collect and choose your treasures,
you never would have sought the stillness
of water without having known its loss.
You stand and stretch your back,
and feel the world move.
(art from Pinterest, not mine)