Choices

I get to come up for air. I get to tell you that i’m now when you ask me if I’m healed. I get to say no. And mean it. I get to ask you what healing is. I get to tell you that it isn’t my goal– living is. Dreaming is. Writing invitations to witness truth is. I get options. And extensions to decide. That is the point. I love you and sometimes I’m trying to stop. I love me and I’m trying to start. I’ve already begun. I’m overflowing if you meet me on the right days. I don’t believe in wrong days. I take my shame for a walk and chain it up outside. I let it sleep in a crate beside my bed. I forget it exists and continue cultivating practices of release. I choose processes over finality. I get to slip out of my skin for sustenance. I get to put my feet into my toes my heart behind my sternum and teeth to my jaw. I get to be hungry and I get to be fed until I’m full. I get to break and stay broken. I get myself, a chance. A promise. A thing that destroys with one limb and grows with the other. A poem that is a poem if I say it is so. A life is a life if I’m still breathing. I don’t make the rules until I do. I just keep surviving until I’m still here.