recreated

I used to craft words

in calloused hands, in

a hard-edged body that

didn't want to admit its decay.

I would dig with my fingertips,

and threaten punches with my

clenched fists. I mastered the art

of stillness, and wished to be stone

on a daily basis.

 

But I'm past that.

I dredged myself out

of a hellhole: I took every

fishhook I'd swallowed and

ripped it out of my stomach. And

it was gutteral. It was grusome. I shattered

every broken bone in my body so it could

heal right; so that when the pain went away,

I wouldn't look in the mirror only to find

blight. And even through that, I wasn't

sure I'd live to see the light.

 

But I'm here.

And I'm not a crafter

of words anymore. I got

soft hands, and rounded

edges, and I began believing

in promises. I started closing my eyes

and seeing more than darkness.

 

And then I began drawing again.

I drew my dad's birthday card, and

sketched up various portraits. I fell

in love with trees, and the upcurled lips

on girls who'd began believing in their own

beauty. I pinpointed where happiness resided

in my body, and laid on the floor when needed.

I modeled myself after a sunflower, and let

myself be warmed up by those who

surrounded me. And I let myself

be touched without terror.

 

I looked back

on pictures taken only

a year or two ago and

felt like that person was

dead. And it brought me

no sorrow. After all, that

which doesn't work

shall not bring me

woe.