i have read so many words and written so many. they are all just marks, or momentary stalled movements...photographs of lives partially lived.
  it is spitting into the downpour of actual.

shitstorms of nonsense

i
will wake from this nightmare
of a dream.

agreeing with a side

disagreeing with another.

i
will remember myself as a breather
and dancer (before dancing was labelled)

i will love you long and
leave you longer
and whatever you wish after that
will be
nothing
as far as my eyes can see.

i
am humbled to know, (and astonished) that
a fable of love whispered or shouted
will cause my blood and bones to vibrate
a truth
that will arrange a reality for me.
(for anyone else i can never know, but that is not the business of reality anyway)

i
can wish for soft and kind
and sweet
and stable.
forgetting death stalks everyone,
and that stalk changes each of us
in ways
unpredictable.

i
may as well
love that eternal friend.
we may as well be lovers.
i am hers anyhow, anyway.

i
will wake up tomorrow even closer to her
i
am making attempts at risking
the loss of everything
for me.

i
am not yours.

i have no belonging. not to a land or a family or a tribe or a lover or to magic.

     i am not even mine.
i
am not even.
i am not.
i

Well, it's christmas. Or whatever we should call the special day after the winter solstice in the southern hemisphere. It's sunny outside, and I really should be out there.
   I don't know how I've got to solitary confinement again, but I have. More than anything I detest isolation...that's not true. I detest confinement most.

    There is a beach just a couple hundred feet from me right now. And I will go out to it.
 And I will want to run it, and I will hear my yoga teacher's voice in my head that running is a terrible sin that will injure me. And I will wish there weren't so many houses.
  Fuck the houses.
Fuck the judgements.
  It's Christmas.