The Shadow, The Heart, And The Void.

My body speaks to me in dialogues of pain.

She is showing me
Where there are cracks in my sacred temple
She is showing me the memories of how they chiseled in
To the shadowy nooks
And were lost (but always there)

below sea level.

My body reaches up to me ‘You are the librarian of this castle.
You sweep the dust, and make neat all the nooks,
But you never stoop to see the words torn into the inner eyelids of the stones.
You wash the walls but you never read the graffiti.’
She says ‘Here is where you hurt.’
And here.
These are the holes you need to know,
But don’t deny them,
Because they let the moonlight in
And little moon-made flowers grow out of the cracks and crags the light seeks with its nimble silver fingers.

Make of the holes an altar.
Pour a salty scream or two into it, and then build the space up anew.
Find the most jagged places and press your lips against them until the skin gives way and when you see the blood, admire it for its color and the way it catches the light.

Carry a bowl to catch your tears in and love them all like little wishes dancing out into the great spiral
Of the night.
All the edges give you so much space
For flowers, and stars, and all the things of magic.
Keep these broken walls, but keep them neat and kind and clean
Sweep the dust and listen to her stories.

Call out to the night and finally agree:
We are dark when we are in shadow, except for when we dance.
The broken places are all welcome to dwell among the books and all the candles of the temple.
We will write them new stories and release this redblue fire out into the bundle of the sky.

Our doors will stay kindly cracked and the windows of our eyes stay open

But we will never
Razor sharp people

To dance within our pink hallways