I watch, with hands over my ears, how the swaying leaves play with the dapples of sunlight on my linen.
Sometimes I must retreat, I must move gently as if I were sick, I must lay down slowly into my own arms.
The muffled sound of my heartbeat, of the blood rushing through my body, pumping on without my permission or assistance is comforting.
I am being taken care of in the rawest way.
Curled up like this I like to imagine my body is a bag of marbles, my bones rubbing together out of order, jumbled, creaky, a little bit wet.
I would love to be that size, to be carried, to be held in palms and tucked into boxes with other special treasures.
I long for a jewelry pouch to settle into, a space without dust where I know I belong, a little nook where I fit perfectly.
My own home is here somewhere, I can feel it, the complimentary side to the magnet within me that keeps repelling from all the wrong places.
Sometimes I come to the conclusion that I birthed myself.
I am simply looking for a mirror.