We all made art, you know. We all still do.
We were little beads of light, forged in the midst of so much darkness— I am forgetting our origin story, because for so many years I had to turn my head away.
I couldn’t look at the pain of what we were,
the honest brokenness of what I was.
I’m not broken anymore, but I doubt I’m honest either.
I lost something when I lost the ability to truly grieve with others.
With every gain, there is a loss.
I am so content now, so happy nearly all the time. But the crow-black wings I once had, folded and damp and heavy with sorrow— those have been amputated.
Sometimes in the middle of the night I catch myself trying to run my fingers through their feathers, and I come up with only warm ocean air.
What we were has been lost to the tomes of memory
but sometimes I miss it.