Casualties of anxiety,
the cracks in my teeth,
will one day be relics
of all my suffering. 
The grey on my chin,
a reminder of when,
I fell apart
and got back up again. 
The ache of my back,
worn from the path,
will one day burn stubbornly
beneath the flame. 
The thoughts in my head,
and the life that I’ve lead,
will disperse into the cosmos,
everywhere between
the spaces in-between. 

This is a moment.

It goes.

It does.

I can’t forget that.

Everything that can
will go away
in the face
of the right circumstances. 

It’s only you at the bottom.


Pull at the mud and roots.

Kick until it hurts.

Get the fuck out of there. 

is but a gift
that is always worth it.

This ache will leave.

Our scars are beautiful.