Plant me where the mud starts to pull towards the water.

I’m always on the edge- not quite falling, but not quite still. It’s like I’m waiting for permission to let go. I’ve been hanging on for too long. I do this well.

Everyone asks me why I keep building gardens in my heart. I’m over-planting flowers in every space I occupy because I don’t know when to stop giving. My mother tells me, “this is why you feel like home”. And I’ll never be worthy of that. I’ll never understand it. I’ll never wonder about it for too long because I think gardens are meant to be visited, not occupied permanently. I’m digging out the mud from every space because I know what beauty can grow from it. I’m watering it with my sweat and I think some of it is mixed with tears.

Let the sun meet me where the shallow end begins. I never feel worthy of such grace but I take it in for the sake of trying and being and believing. I just want to fall into my hollows without landing too hard- let the spaces be filled with something less sad. More forgiving. Some place where the mud starts to pull towards the water. AMT