between my ribs and the ocean,
lies a space of
bone and soul, of
something crucial, fatal and vital,
something I never named, never saw, never lived without.
I used to define it- slap stick yellow label and Sharpie in purple-
“a space of solid hurt”
perpetual state of being, perpetual weight of being alive-
all the beauty and glory, and all the smells I could never really bare, but always bore
(sweat and mint and sticky vanilla and my mother’s room)
but growing up, brought with it,
and sometimes, somehow, the space
it learned to breathe.
learned to rest.
learned to close its eyes and feel the breeze.
I never claimed to be strong,
and my core anything but voids like orange peels and
yet, my space has learned to breathe,
inhale and exhale, contract and expand,
and in my space,
I’ve learned to find the freedom-
the unbearable freedom of our being.