When we spoke on the phone yesterday I loved your honesty — and you.
You told me you have some shame.
You too?
You gorgeous bouquet of cut flowers in a fine, crystal vase. We’re all the same — did you know that? — although we won’t say it, but you did, bravely, to me.
And yet it breaks my heart to see shame bend and crack your lovely looking glass like this.
And there you go again, down the Rabbit hole and across the watery horizon, leaking strength and beauty.
Soul funk junk,
Heart-hate drunk,
Ache-cry,
Sad eye.
Ugg!
This is dangerous smack!
This is street grade emo-crack!
Listen to me.
The cure is not in doing the enough that will never be enough.
It is not in trying to be more attractive or smarter or more accomplished. That won’t do it for thee, or me, or them or even him.
The emotion that eats itself cannot be eaten.
I know.
I’ve eaten it.
You can only be held, heard and healed by you — with the rest of us making sure you keep your arms wrapped around yourself.
The cure is love, for yourself — straight up — and the shame-eraser of a massive rain storm of total grace.
Do this: Go get a good night’s sleep, you shattered-smattered beauty thing.
Really! I’m serious. Sleep matters in this — as in all things.
And tomorrow morning, get up, and first thing go into the bathroom, and look in the mirror, and say softly to your self,
“You’re a good girl,” and say your name.
And then say, “I love you”
Say it again.
Mean it.
Modern Soliloquies & Pastiches 