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Nest of Ropes

There are some days, moments, minutes, where I want to bury myself inside the earth. Tie myself with rope and roots inside the belly of an old yew tree. Dig myself inside the depths into my own nest of earth. The branches stretching out above me, gnarled and twisted like the hands of a great grandmother. Bones and bracken. Moss and mold. I keep digging down until I find a sliver of self; something hidden, a mystery for both of us.

I braid my hair with memories and longing; sometimes mine, sometimes borrowed. I braid my hair because it connects me to something ancient and endearing. This longing a vulnerability I share for release. A soul craving for touch; flesh on flesh and heart to heart. Your blood pulse is my lifeline. I would fall inside you if I could, through all the layers of ink and scars.

I know I know I know things can’t go back to normal, and chaos is everybody’s new love language but please show me how to flow inside this density, this staggering uncertainty. Most days I remember. Oh I really do remember: certainty was always just a myth. Yet still, childlike and vulnerable, I grasp at the fantasy. Gasping for air, sinking into the deep again, drowning from my own paralysis. I swear on my heart I am grateful for every agonizing transition, every blessed transmutation.

I fell in love with the mountains maybe just because at their heights I no longer feel so very small. The horizon has become like folklore. I want to feel the cold alpine air on my face and remember what it is to be a giantess. I will press my face into the rock and pray to the mountains core. This is my prayer.

Through words and story I gather the bones.


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