I Didn't Know...

I didn't know.
I didn't...
That there were other colors and shades and aromas of abuse. Subtle nuances which slipped in between the nights turning in to long winded mornings. The gentle nudges that felt like punches to the soul but whispered love and longing and connection.

I didn't know.
I didn't...
The many ways mouths opened and closed and somewhere in there my heart felt the aches of sarcasm, jokes at the expense of joy, the way I held my breath and smiled because I didn't know. Not what to do. Not what to say. Nothing ebbed up from my belly aches to catch a fire in my throat to be expressed. Instead, my belly just ached longer and longer.

I didn't know.
I didn't...
That both of them. The women folk, the men folk. Could play with the same heart strings to tug, tug, tug at my worth, my lack of all that was needed to be someTHING. That in the throes of connection, of circling around bonfires and social meals with forks and glasses coming up for air, there was no seeing me, no hearing me. I muffled myself. I silenced the parts of me that asked...is this love, is this right?

I didn't know.
I didn't know...
That the push and pull, the here I am and here I am not, the conditions to be a certain way, the false hopes to lure and hook my skin right under my breast, the escalation and euphoria of a great future bathed in foliage and tiny flowers along a windowsill...That these things twist a nervous system, bend a spirit and isolate a heart to float in darkness, the soul bleeding in between a sheet, a pillow and a deep longing.

I didn't know.
I didn't know...
That bread crumbs belonged in the bread basket, not in my tiny fists. That each crumb became a delusional mountain where I saw enormous clouds conspiring to circle around us and lift us to holy heavens. Us. Me with the crumbs, coming home with the tiny morsel in my hand, my tired head on the pillow, clutching it as I slept. It's mine. I am loved.

I didn't know.
I didn't know...
The ways subtle emotional hell's could just sneak in without notice and become the backbone of days into nights into weeks into too much time that the back bends forward, just taking it. Like my ancestors. Like the women folk I knew who just gave and gave and gave with voices forming in their throats never to be freed. That what I saw modeled when a tiny girl would shape and form every longing of love and partnership and friendship and intimacy I could muster up. That how I thought love worked, how I thought my other half would become, was just by giving a basket of abundance from my heart, soul, spirit, body, big slices too soon, too much, too available. My small hand reaching out, palms out with blooms of magic enveloping their everything.

Because connection.
Because belonging to...
Because the feeling of a connection deep, deep with and within.
Because it was the very touch, the very bond, the very breath of love in this way, the way I wanted love, that I did not get as a small one, me, this small one. The sensitive one who just wanted the deep waters of love to swim in, the embrace of my protectors whispering the stories where I am the heroine, the ultimate love child with the brush of nature on my side. The holding. Whenever. Mouthing the words of encouragement, you are safe, love is here, sleep sweet child.

That bond not made. Those needs not met. Not for faulting of them, just knowing this story and my stories on repeat. Foraging this story of connection. That phew...gasp of air that is missing in my soul. The grief of longing that I traveled many lifetimes to capture, even if crumbs. Yet in the process my not knowing. Of these nuanced abuses. That I broke and split myself over and over again until I finally SAW.

The bond is not there.
Not in those crumbs.
Not in the illusions of love and belonging.
But in resurrecting it from within me. To connect with me, my truest self.
To know that the grief of when I lost the bonds, the ones with those not in integrity or purity of any sort, is not about them.

It is the grief my soul is whispering to me of letting go...the continued longing from childhood.
To...hush. Let it go.
Come back home.
Crumbs no more.
Nourish yourself. Deeper. Holier. Rise. HIGHER. HIGHEST.
Self-Source. Feminine replenishment. Look not.

And now.
I know.
What each one meant. What each tie and tangle was made from.

And now I know.
At 51.
I suppose...
That now I know what to do with...

what i know

In love,