the orangest moon
The Unbearable Lightness of BEing

There is no joy to be found in the apex of another’s expectations. Those burdens do not belong to me. My unyielding year-long lesson. Trying to stuff myself into these societal assignments. Desperate to be some alternate version of destiny. Something easier to explain. Something more comprehensive to the masses. Something masked and polite and contented.

& My mother, she does not understand my rebellion because she cannot fathom the way that my skin has become a host of storms and my fleshy indifference encasing some petite onslaught of revolution. We are on the verge of losing touch because of this. Which destroys me. I am unhinged over this, daily. Unraveling into retreat. The obligatory separation that occurs when a warrior accepts mission.

There is this feeling of invincibility that I am obligated to inspire. An invisible depth to despair that we are willing to inflict upon ourselves as creators and the learned martyrdom of expression. There is something swelling in the stories that still require telling. The tales that belong to the very souls that we have lifted and granted visibility.  More than the redundancy of rags to riches. More than ‘To God Be The Glory’ exclamations and the superficial religious narrative. It is the potency of knowing that He reigns. It is magic potions and spellbound alchemy. It is redemption. It is relentless crown bearing. It is humility and the earnest joy of purposed unimportance. It is being a tiny spec in an infinite creative universe, propelling all partakers towards betterment. Run, and tell that.

It is biblical, it is technicolor, it is poetic, harmonic, connectivity, formula, plot, sisterhood, splendor, and laughter.

It is feeling something that moves you and then giving it to the wind… immediately. Without wondering if the earth can sustain your heart. Without worrying if it “works”. It is being allowed to  give birth and rearing the child later. It is not being a clone, and not panicking. It is not carrying the weight of expectation and remaining guiltless. It is devouring. It is being intentional upon waking. It is a habitual awareness.

It is BEing, sans apology.



When I realized I loved you 
it was not romantic 
Not flush with pink roses & wine
but rather normal 
Rather standing in line at CVS 
clutching a four pack of peanut butter cups 
& cold medicine
It was a quiet realization 
Like checking the weather I was currently standing in 
"Huh. It’s a bit warmer
than I would have guessed.” 

(via waiting--on--the--other--side)



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