What if it is okay for me to want exactly what I want? What if it is okay for me to desire many worlds, trailing my fingers in imaginary eddies, forgetting and remembering, forgetting and remembering. What if it is okay to grieve? What if is okay to gather my losses, lifting them one by one to my mouth, tasting the indigo sweetness of each perfect morsel.
What if it is okay to be in a body? What if it is okay to heave and loll in the heat of the day, to follow the creases in my hips, to pluck pleasure from every skin-covered bone, to feel the weight of me falling into the earth. What if it is okay to work? What if it is okay to push myself to exhaustion, to let go of time for longer than expected, silently hoping that what I am doing is worthwhile, somehow.
What if it is okay to rest? What if it is okay to delight in a slow moment with myself, to sink into my soft sheets at 3:00 in the afternoon. What if it is okay to invite uncertainty? What if it is okay to reside in the liminal spaces between knowing and ignorance, allowing confusion to seep into my chest like the ocean washes the clam shell clean.
What if it is okay for me to be exactly who I am?
What if it is okay for me to be exactly who I am?
What if it is okay for me to be exactly who I am?
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Siena Rose 