Hindsight is 20/20

My whole day revolves around a regimen.

I wake up.

1.) remember to keep breathing

2.) apple cider vinegar, lemon and water to digest all the bullshit

3.) wormwood, for the gut to roll its rounds of elegies and allegories in the stillness of that same breathing

4.) tincture: bitterness hidden in my syntax and laughter— spreads its palms and surrenders

5.) remember to keep breathing

6.) I dig graveyards in the folds of my tongue, an agenda of setting space and time free

7.) A bulk of fiber, to push out the bulk of whatever resides in me; ghosts of voices long dead, 

fingers trapped, reaching…gone

8.) water, hydration— watering my plants, the ones in my ears that listen, the ones in my eyes that can’t believe how we’ve forgotten to have basic human kindnesses reside in the bowels of this muscle, where did our wombs go?

9.) probiotic: the good kind—helping the peristalsis, the waves of what gives me heat—that what goes down and gives me energy, a group of nerves acting in unison, all doing their part, in order—without the need to be King

My whole day revolves around a regimen.

Wake up. 

Take a hot, no—a scalding bath and soak, until the heart feels no envy, no hate.

Take the warmth of that fraudulent womb and remember the courage left, move in your flesh uniform in cadence with the heart that once grew in eight weeks.

The ugly you feel in the atoms of the highways, is the longing of the fuse, it is undeniable—frustrating, to exist without the mother, to be left cut from the warmth of what fed us, maybe sometimes without much love, but still, here we are alive and breathing—because of her willingness and the luck to carry us full term/

Incomplete or complete, the fuse is what connects us, the sun is what shines down on us, and our blood is what spills when any of us is cut.

The contradiction lies in what we know as comfortable, be it alone or in pairs or in-groups. We substitute our rage with cruelty and savagery and call it longing. We are afraid of what we don’t understand because we understand nothing, so we fear everything. Suits and salaries and money and diplomas stamped with reminders of years spent in a prison give the illusion of understanding. But you are there, pointing the finger at everything, while four fingers point back. 

This is our only haven, this small tender world birthed from a single drop and bang. We as of right now, are modern creatures, but soon, our bones will be dug up and our art will be examined and perhaps even ridiculed and they will see how much we failed ourselves on repeat. We never looked at anything, they’ll say, with our eyes, they used the lens of their phones and the lens of the television to dictate their feelings—imagine THAT, they’ll say exasperated. 

They’ll look at the rainbow of faces and never understand the contempt that we allowed to ferment with an unwillingness to cut the thick fog of disillusion with an understanding that we all suffer the same  plight. 

That plight of womb and delusion. The sadness of breathing and the melancholy of eyesight. How incredibly sad, they’ll think—to not realize that being reborn was as simple as a change of mind. 

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