where the wildflowers grow

[Cynthia]

"Beneath dirt,
my skin blooms.
Nightshade, oh... mother we are luminary.
Doves where nothing flies,
his hair river, reeds full.
Moon every night,
he coaxes spring from inside of me."
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The very same journal is left flipped open, the pages falling past some nonsensical entries-- day to day things, but the following entry harbors marks of ink that could very well pressure through the current page to the next:

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I don't feel sorry.

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When it comes to uninspired apologies, I've never felt like accepting them. I don't think it's wrong of me, either. If you are willing to bare your soul to me and it is direct venom to my standing, I do not think that I have to play nice with you. I don't know if I should exactly feel these things I do, but there's no changing the fact that they are there.

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When I told someone that I'd whip another person in the mouth and take away their ability to speak their mess in my face, it was a warning to who I was speaking to too. I never thought I'd be capable of making sense of actions like that, but here I am. The sense of protection I felt so adamantly seems to all but have dissolved with people taking away from me. Each hand in the pot has felt like little parts of me have been picked apart. The charity I felt is gone. The love I've felt for people that I do not know is gone.

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Feeling that rage, the way that it ached for someone to know that they'd never get their hands on something they seemingly sought after so hard felt good. To know that someone felt so powerless that they came to claim they'd conquest Esshar for what I did to them... It is bizarre, is it not?

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Maybe if it had been a year or two ago, I'd have given it back. I would've felt awful in my red beating heart.

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That's growth though.

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And when I look in the mirror, I can tell you one thing:

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I love who I'm becoming. For me, myself, and I. I've spent too much time being sad over it. Too much time trying to resist.

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Now, it's time to do a little spring cleaning.