I stare among the women in crossed-legged seated postures and wonder if I’ll ever get there. Smiles strung along their faces. They’ve made it. They have found some place to call home. They pull love and compassion from places I’ve never heard of; from some chakra of the month. I still pull my tears back. The only colorful line up are my excel spreadsheets during fundraising campaigns and no one seems to care how long I haven’t been smiling. Breathe. Count to three. Allow the inner critic to wash away. I need more inner goddess, that’s for sure. Do you get that from kombucha? Taking pictures in a yoga pose? Can you see me now? Calling for help. Breathe. Maybe I’m just jealous of all the love they seem to receive. An internal healing from tailbone to sun salutations. I wish there was a bandaid big enough to cover the wounds I have. The sands of time have only stung like salt ripe on my flesh. “Moving forward” was silly advice. I now exhale my problems onto the next person. Deep, cursed excerpts of my ode to humanity and love and family and relationships and him and… breathe. I guess maybe I am jealous of those smiles stretched across their faces. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll find my own love in my crossed-legged meditation too.
Endless movement of her mind
Sets traps of every kind
Watch your step and bend your back
Remember all her world’s off track.
Charged with murder of my own heart,
Howling for a moment more
Before I eat it and forever starve.
Collect my love puddles and recycle them back to me
Puddles from the sweat behind my knees, praying you and I will be.
Clutch the emerald rosary
between our fangs.
And that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Sink them deep, my crimson cabernet is yours to keep
Slackline on the silverlining to the highest star
Bring me back to my body
The keeper of my puddles, my crimson, my heart.
-Words by Jasmine Duran and Luiz Castro
I want to kiss all your scars until they heal with memories of me tightly woven in.
She drifts to the gust of her gut feeling.
The love here is sleeping.
Orchestrate my sacred name. Pull me by the bows and braids. Kill my inner peace with words you said I used in vain.
Believe all that you want as a young fawn. Skip in your parade of doves. All you see is love, sweet love; never understanding some.
Batter, beat, and belittle your own,
For love’s a sacred game we only play at home.
There is a collector of art who has once said he is attracted to those paintings that he cannot understand. He would purchase a painting and hang it in his home or studio to look at it everyday, study the painting, and hopefully find its meaning. He searched for understanding; for answers.
You, my darling, are my abstract painting. A remarkable wash of rare mediums and marks and each day I must study you with care, with love, with patience. Until, I carry those virtues with me in all aspects of life and continue to love you with all the confusion and clutter.
So I’ll watch you, I’ll touch you, I’ll get close, I’ll back away, I’ll rest, I’ll resist, I will be entertained and frustrated. But I will never forget why you’re here
And it doesn’t include my need to understand at all.
She was wild with her hair. Tangled, dry, and framed to perfection as the wind blew, rounding her wild face perfectly.
She was wild in her eyes. Narrowed to attack, wide when surprised. Emotions so deep yet sat on her pride.
She was wild with her teeth. The kind you watch eat because they are so fascinating. Chicken chewed down to the bone and a snap, suck, slurp, of the marrow.