Love letter to me who is finding my way back to me.

I had a friend who once who told me,

“I think that I could be happy with your life, but it seems like what makes you happy is complicated.”

I’ve had some time to think and I’ve decided I don’t agree.

Actually, the things that make me happy are quite simple:

the sun on my skin

walking and walking for miles on end

the freedom to do that

no looming shadows of what I’ll owe for paying my time into my one soft body

the care of those who love me.

Knowing they are well.

You can never get enough of what you never really needed, and by that I mean, what is not written into the recipe for your bones.

I’m always defaulting on things like time or my bank account,

like respectability or being nice or healing without scars

like being the type of employee who is quiet and quick and soft and funny and fuckable and chaste.

The problem is, I keep speaking to myself in a language that my body doesn’t know,

like an English swallowed over a Spanish or a German or a Hebrew, swallowed over whatever came first,

we are so far from ourselves,

we do not know even how that’s called,

let alone how

to answer.

-9/6/20