The Both/And

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There are some weights I’ve carried
silently
across years,
my skin and bone growing
right around them
tangled
complicated.
The heaviness buried.

Still, I grew into
my frame.
I softened,
curved
found my way.
I’ve made beautiful things.
I can be both/and.

But then, on a day still close,
words spilled inky and
echoed across my skin and
a thin crack
zig zagged
across my body.
My legs splayed open.
Again.
The weight,
like a muzzle.
Me, wild.

All this time
I’ve been tracing the edge of
this leaden thing.
Feeling its sharpness
through layers of living.
But what now?
What does the both/and manifest as
once the veil has been torn?

It screams and rages and
throws glass against concrete.
It also chases beauty and justice.
It makes art.
It gathers words and longs for connection and it
recognizes brokenness.
It is mess, redeemed.
This.
This is the both/and.

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