Timelines


I want to dream of crescent moon galaxies with holographic blue whales swishing prismatic tales through stardust.
 
To lie back on carpets woven with ubiquitous, previously unseen color while fantasies form on demand by the nonlocal hand of my consciousness 
 
To allow every fractal of every back alley of every preface of every crevice of my Self to dematerialize and pass-through numeric portals, giving way to blinking systems and encryptions and symbols that I cannot comprehend or cognize - even through my third eye.
 
I want to sumptuously sprawl in the space where all that I am is effortlessly and meticulously molded in the most congruent, communal and omnisciently artful way.
 
Where I don’t have to say who I am or what I believe or want to achieve only to fall prey to the broken and battered voices of the afraid and their ironically reflective, destructively myopic, mundane topics and excruciatingly elementary evaluations.
 
Let me be crystal mist again and blend into infinite dividends of binary stars and brown dwarfs and orbs of absorbent life, uncorked and wild with the beguiling ability to just be.
 
I don’t want to write about trauma or drama or the way my mama dismissed my gifts while grifting my spirit.
 
I don’t want to say that it was made clear from the first tear that welled up when my voice was swelled shut that I was grossly misinformed on how to do life.
 
I don’t want to replay the terse reprimanding of my needless, teeming humanity or when they demanded my understanding that none of this was even happening and if I thought it was, it was merely an example of my dysfunctionally unctuous need for attention.
 
I don’t want to write about how long after, in a mirrored situation, they came with newly plastered imitations of their ignorant observations and did nothing else but point their thin fingers deep into my heart and critically curve the corners of their mouths.
 
I don’t want to talk about the anxiety that continues to accompany the dispensing of basic human kindness because I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.
 
I wish only to lock eyes with my future self as she says, “I’m sorry it’s hard.” And she cries too, having forgotten how shamefully terrible it was. 

“Cry once more and at last”, she breathes. “Revel in it. Then release. You must become the woman we are; who hasn’t disremembered but, rather, is wholly unacquainted with the absolute fuckery of a family we invented."
Poet | Nonprofit Founder | Guide 👁 | Mentor ☯️ | Human (probably) | Everybody’s Weird Auntie ✊🌍 www.wewriteforchange.org
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