small letters to myself

stay a child, but not a fool.
be gentle with yourself –
you are a repressed artist. we all are.

slow down enough to find the artist lurking inside,
sniffing the air for signs,
pleading for a breath of fresh mischief.
slow down enough to meet yourself,
unplug enough to have to create.
confront the world – the real one – especially flowers.
(decaying, emerging, blossoming)
especially feelings –
yours, anyone’s, all of ours.
every feeling is a benediction,
a graze of thorns calling you to wake up now
you’ve got learning to do.
i know, it hasn’t always been safe.
the brief moments of furnace when it hasn’t been safe have been enough
to turn the milk
to turn the heart into a locked glove box,
key inside,
maybe.
maybe lost.
it seems safer not to know, not to feel it all,
yours and everyone else’s,
but feeling is not your enemy.
the only way out is in.
does the first-time flower fear to blossom?
does all life fear change, growth?
does death love life?

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