The Composition

There is often talk of what makes us.
Composition. Composed. Decomposed.
As if our bodies and souls were the same flesh. The same cells.
Isn’t your heart and your mind the same thing?
As if I could tell you that my mind is made of mud and you’d understand.
When you are made of a universe of moments –
the ones before you and the ones make’d, made, construed, destroyed, and mangled during this present.
The quip is “sugar, spice, and everything nice.”
Isn’t it?
Little girls. Women.
Gods.
The woman is not so simply composed.
You are Diana. But, you are also Venus.
Ares exists in their two bellies.  As if Bacchus didn’t make the wine to bind this time.
The stains of pain with Eros shame.
For you are not one thing.
You are an empire made of magic and the ends are always tragic here.
Because there is no end.  You wade through life against the waves of hurt, the moments of serenity, and the bile of expectations to make something that is your own.
You make your soul, because this story isn’t simple.
Life is jumbled and blurry.
It captures you like an ocean – so perfectly silent that it roars.
The rip tide pulls you away.
Away from home. Away from love.  Away from what is safe. Away.
And in that moment, what looks like freedom may only be a mirage.
What is right?
You are not one thing, dear woman.
You walk through this life on jagged rocks and sharp glass.
Your soul bleeds from carrying this weight.
And in the pain, there is clarity.
You are a thousand moments.
A million mistakes.
And yet, you are the world.

 

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