If I have a fighting chance at grace, please let the sad words boiling from my tongue fall through my fingers as I try and catch them.

I need to teach myself to let go. Let the bruises on my knuckles match pigments laced between the stars. Let the pangs in my chest remind me that I am very-much alive.

It’s in my nature to pull back and lick my wounds for no one to see. It’s like an instinct and I repent like a sinner every time the world hurts me- I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help grieving every piece of it.

I am made from my mother’s rib cage and when I scream, I feel my father’s calmness wash over me- that’s because I’m made from his spirit too. These things all weave together like fine latticework. It’s all about healing until you can convince yourself that you’re better than ever. Feel the drumming in my chest as it begins to rattle against my bones. Let it know that I’m home. Let it know that I’m the wakening. Let it know that I’m here for the taking, as long as it’s graceful. -AMT ©️