Trickle

Another waiting room, another round of the same, the new.When facing the shadow of our own truth, where do we turn?Inward - Outward - ThroughChapter 7 becomes a reflection in the mirror, judgement and projection painted upon my brow.Who do we become, when we are but ourselves?The screen clouds, chairs thrown, brows sweaty with my own fear.Love consumes, holds, pulls us out of the spiral.  A flurry of I'm sorry catches me and pulls me in. And yet, the burning question- when and how to forgive the self?Until I do, the rest is a circle. A spiral, please, pull in the edges. Let me leave flatland, and dance into a sphere.My Treasure looks me in the eyes and tells me the judgement of my own heart shows how I judge him, and I hear the truth in his words.If I am only built of my productivity, proven items crossed off list after list, where will can I go but into a spiral if I take care of myself and my health instead of doing what I have been mandated to do, instead of doing what I have taken on?  Until we build the infrastructure, no work can truly begin.Brent echoes in my ears. You are busy knitting, he says. Cellular knitting.  The lines are laid, and I breathe in.  How?  How.I am myself, sitting in my skin.I am myself, sitting with my thoughts, aware of my own judgement.I am myself, imperfect.Can I forgive myself my imperfections, or will this begin again?I have yet to find the tool.  I have yet to have that moment.  No person telling me "you can do it" can make that desire true.  No one else can walk that line for me.  This is my foot on the path.  This is me, sitting on the couch, holding a wounded body and wounded heart.  Knitting.  Listening to the Mother of Monsters, 4am between words unwilling to write themselves.Unable to write themselves.I hear myself, two more days lost to the paperwork, waiting rooms, doctors words, breathing exercises in the shadows of a dirty city.I hear myself, two days lost, a month lost, so behind, so behind, buried, drowning.Looking down at my arms, I see my brandings.  Waves, dots, eyes.  Before my dance with the Queen of Heaven, those waves had another meaning.  That my hands are always above the wave, and I can pull myself out of the water.  The hooks in my gills, there, I see it.  The hook called expectation.  The hook called expectation, dug in deep.  I see it, and I know, I have to find a way from being caught where I am.  And I'm not there yet.But my hands are above the water, and the words trickle out.