Skin and Spring

Probing at this flesh. Tasting and considering the pieces of skin that have fallen away -- unable to meet the demands of where I am, who I am, what I have finally said, the splintering and the things that have finally broken me. Open. I taste like love and sadness. When I put my lips to the jagged and exposed places where old skin used to be, I can taste my own heartbreak and narcissism and failures. I can also taste the expanse of my own blossoming. I swallow and run my tongue through the daisies coming to life inside my mouth; perceiving their beautiful bitterness and that specific, familiar ache and craving for my own more-ness. The desire to turn myself inside out and spill yellow or any kind of bright thing into the soil of this earth. To offer something beyond hurt and an unyielding commitment to a lifetime of shrinking all this god-like matter into nothing. Sometimes, the rebirth looks like a devouring of self. Like a fire consuming oxygen to become more of what it is. Like alchemy.