i am the woman in the desert i always write about. painting, building, working my hands rough beneath the sky. my long hair, in a loose pony-tail that snakes along my back. wearing jeans, baggy and soiled with paint, rolled just above my ankle; feet darkened brown from the sun.
and though she's grown through me, today i can't help but feel like i am entirely earthquake. shock, tension, friction, heat that is angry. i feel it in my spine, and am afraid i will be crooked forever. how i surprise myself by my own danger. the crazed fury that can ignite from my heart.
how does one retrain its rhythms and flows? i want to love better, deeper, harder. without fear. and as much as i say this, and intend it, the guards still come stomping out.