Endlessly

I’m not scared of heightened states of consciousness in pitch black nights alone anymore. I roar at any presence I feel, any threat. It’s what I do now, I hiss and slither and widen my eyes and scare what scares me. I make sure. My womb is often tingly. It wants children every alternate fortnight. It will have to wait. I tend to fiercely protect what’s mine and now I feel more than equipped to nurture new lives. I could always tell when I was on someone’s mind. Like an energy instinct. I’d dwell and drown in a connection till it blinded and intoxicated me. What is one of the many tragedies of helplessly escalating maturity? I feel like I’ve grown out of all the sweet boys I’ve loved. I’ll always love them but I’ve grown out of them, begging and hoping that they catch up to me but they’ll take their sweet time. I didn’t and now I make no sense in their corners. I hope this isn’t true, but it is. Now I’m wide awake, revisiting shared spiritual planes on my own, only nostalgic about the intoxication. I tend to shock me, I often sound like a mother. I give my skin kisses and proudly taste my tears. Seeing right through facades, marvelling innocence in its harmless forms. I think more about women than I ever have before. I feel like my soul has always been sending its sisters out on missions. We have had work to do. We’re doing it right now, aren’t we? I lay still on grass, clutching it, staring longingly, endlessly at the sky. I picture black and green faces, grey and turquoise eyes and I chuckle at moths that look alive but are really dead. They left a long time ago, joke’s on the seer. I chuckle at psycho-sexual elements of human existence. At all the things we feverishly want. Our desire limbos. Then, I hold my face in my hands and heave. We like looking at pretty pictures. We like thinking pretty thoughts. We like embracing gory darkness on bad days. My chest hurts, but I smell divine. Like toasted marshmallows and lilac flowers. “My chest hurts and I want to kiss you,” but instead I will continue chasing things I don’t want. At least there’s glory in my suffering. With my sweet, sweet suffering, I will graze deeper dimensions. I will bring from them healing to my being and let that healing flow to the spaces around me. To the things I touch. Oozing like deep red blood from a fresh wound, flowing like berry smoothies from blenders to glasses. Melting in relief. Crumbling to nothing and assimilating into all there is.