Saturday, January 31, 2015

.Postcards From Paris.

I want a postcard from Paris
and fingers perpetually stained with ink.
I want to wear my hair wild every day
with horse's hair braided in
and lipstick on bare skin.
I want peaty black tea every morning
and pink toenails hidden
in hand-knitted socks
and to make oatmeal and milk messes
with a blue-eyed little boy.
I want to believe in second chances.
I want to believe in romance.
I want your calloused hands and quiet soul
because I'm loud enough for the whole
I want to ride bareback on a big sorrel horse.
I want an old claw-foot bathtub.
I want a Navajo rug.
I want a postcard from Paris.

Friday, January 2, 2015

.Baptized in the Bathwater.

Can this water get any hotter?

No, really. 

I think the only way I'd be satisfied is if it were hot enough to boil the flesh off my bones. Still, every inch of my skin is already pink and stinging. I imagine myself like an old wool sweater: worn and tired, stretched and stained, fragile and frayed. I submerge myself, let the water do its work. Soak into my fibers, clean them, shrink them. Rinse away the days past. Wring me out, reshape me. When I'm dry, I'm good as new. There isn't much that can't be swept down the drain at the end of the day. My darling, that is a blessing. 

The fight has not gone out of me, no...but it saves its strength for that which is truly worth fighting for. I sleep soundly under heavy blankets stitched with truth and love and real dedication. My dreams are sweeter than ever before. If you stand for nothing, you'll fall for anything...dear, I am done falling. 

But when I'm too tired to stand, I'll rest my aching bones and brain in the steamy water, and say a tiny prayer for each lavender-scented bubble that tickles my heated skin. I'm baptized anew each night in the bathwater, and I rise up with a clean heart, in better shape than when I started.