Screaming acres. Dusty corners. Your moms old sofa with the splitting seams. Peeling paint off the ceiling. I hate how these things nest in my mind like a sickness. I mean, I never needed any of these things. I’m just using the light to flood into my bedroom and drown my fragile skin so that I don’t get too cold. If I see the world in shadows then it’s shortcomings won’t come to light, right? I’m so fucking uncomfortable in this freckled skin that drapes over me. Is it even really mine? I want to lye in the acres where no one can find me- wipe the dust from the corners of my eyes- tear at the seams like your moms old sofa and peel my skin off like the ceiling paint. I want to feel clean. Pressing my palms on the base of a granite sink to be holy. What it must feel like to let myself feel holiness. I need the whole act of surrendering to meet my mind. Tell it to be kinder to myself. Tell it to punish the fucking world and all its pressure and combustion and sickness and harshness. Tell it to rest- truly rest. The type of rest that makes the rest of your body create openings so that you can plant new harvest. Grow kindness in your mind like you’ve had it all along. Pick those flowers and give them to yourself for safekeeping. Plant them in the vastness of those quiet spaces, just like the acreage you gaze out to. Just like the dusty pages of books you reread for the sake of comfort. Just like your moms sofa that she swears is an antique, but holds specs of gold in the seems where it’s bursting like your mind. Just like paint peeling from the ceiling, begging to show the original colors that made it wholesome all along. -AMT