I see

I see you desperately trying to hide your beauty. I see the wounds that have made you want to hide. I can feel the breath of the family member who called you cutie, and left you with a wasp nest inside. I can still hear the compliment deflection, and I can still taste the bitterness of the air. A dark grey hangs in every direction, but I am not afraid of the daggers in your stare. I know what has sharpened them, I know what has given them shine. I see your once bright skies and what has darkened them, and can feel the pain in the unanswered divine.


But your grace and your beauty cannot be hidden for long, as even the wretched cannot eclipse the power they possess. I came to sit beside you and help you sing your song, and help you grow a lotus from this murky mess.

If you wish to remain silent,

then I alone will sing, as long as you help me with your tune.

Without perpetuating the violent, without anything you need to bring, the angels themselves will swoon.


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Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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