naked

Stripped Down.
Naked.
Day umpteen of hiding and my armor has been peeled away.
Mirror, mirror…
tell the truth,
who am I
without the suit?

mirror, mirror
be very clear,
behind the mask
behind the fear?
mirror, mirror
cracked & broken?
hiding the shame
of words unspoken…

Day … lost count at 30…

I stab at my touchscreen, searching for an unshattered sliver where my fingers won’t bleed. The cracks spiderweb across the glass, reflecting fractured versions of myself. A typist from the 70s, hammering letters onto a misaligned page. The ink never quite landing where it should. Always outside the lines.

Everything around me breaking.

I twirl my car keys, the golden tag of Burj Khalifa cold between my fingers… tik tik… nothing. Silence. A betrayal in metal and mechanics. My car as quiet as my mind now, something not connecting, everything stuck.

I call for a tow truck, for a mechanic. Someone to fix what won’t move. They come for her, strap her down, wheel her off. Hands will pry her open, examine her, diagnose the broken bits. My heart clenches with envy. She will be seen. She will be tended to. The cost irrelevant. Because she is worth fixing.

Breaking is infectious.

The hinges on my drawer have come undone. It swings, unhinged like me, sliding in and out at odd angles, catching on invisible snags. I yank, I curse, I demand movement. It refuses, holding its secrets hostage.

So I shove my fingers in, past the splinters and dust, reaching for the teaspoon trapped in the dark. The drawer tightens, resisting. My skin rips. A battle. It wins. I suck the wound, tasting iron, tasting defeat, and wonder when exactly things began to fall apart. How long had I ignored the warning signs?

The tea is bitter. The cup, scalding. I glare at it as though it, too, has betrayed me. I toss it into the sink, yesterday’s dishes crowding its space. My mother’s voice echoes in my head, reprimanding me for the mess. I shake it off. Laziness is my preferred mode of survival these days.

One cup.
One spoon.
One plate.

The house shrinks around me, a six-seater dining table forever waiting for guests who no longer arrive. The weight of absence presses against my ribs.

10,000 miles away from my loved ones.
How far away is far enough?
How long is long enough?

The silence is loud. I whisper to myself, afraid the universe might hear and demand answers I am not ready to give.

Why delve at ruins?

Why excavate when you can plaster over?

I sit with these questions, courage still a stranger. But I know, deep in the marrow of my bones, that I cannot outrun them forever.

Slowly, slowly… I begin.

The change starts at the surface.

First to go are the outer layers: clothes, makeup, the polished hair, the heels that make me feel taller than I am.

Next, the habits and rituals. The beliefs I clung to like lifeboats. The truths I swallowed down whole.

And in their place, new things take root: yoga at dusk, twirling to "I Will Survive" in my kitchen, walking barefoot on damp grass, grounding myself in the earth. Baking, endlessly baking. Scrubbing unused rooms in flowing robes, as if washing away ghosts. Talking to no one and everyone in the same breath.

And yet, some things remain: the daily prayers, the hushed conversations with my sisters, the whispers of loved ones long gone. And him. And him.

With the silence and the solitude comes a reckoning. Fifty-nine years of unpacking, mourning, celebrating. A quiet gratitude for a life that refuses to remain stagnant.

My flaws.
So many…
My broken bits…
Too much…
My giant heart.
Unapologetically huge and cheesy.
But I am left with an optimism for my new reality.
Words unspoken.
Pah!

I reach out to him as if to complete me.

Say the unspoken…calling him back to me.

Once again I fling the phone, it hits the cold floor with a bang, shattering into a million pieces.

And with that the realization dawns: I am already whole, have always been.

About Damn Time ....A response by GingerZ

Coming of age is acceptance, and with acceptance and knowledge comes a truth shining brighter and bolder ... this truth is different for each one of us, and we can not expect anyone to be on the same page, the same understanding as we are... to expect this would be selfish.

Journeys are ones own, and yes, paths can be shared, but perspectives change, views get  redefined, and new experiences forge new adventures.

These paths can be the same, but how we look at it, embrace it ... is totally different.

It is with this understanding that I have found tolerance and peace ... chaos and drama.

For every step, there is a shudder into the universe.

I sit now and look at the relationships, situations, acquaintances, and friendships that surround me, and i wonder how many actually serve my path...

.. some ppl are just there .. I've learned how to stop letting it bother me ... I've learned that no response is a response, and I am my own priority. 

I sit now and look at the relationships, situations, acquaintances, and friendships that surround me 

.. some ppl are just there .. I've learned how to stop letting it bother me ... I've learned that no response is a response, and I am my own priority. 

I had a message from the past ... again, it was a message that probably suited him, it vibrated my space  and then nothing...the old me would have responded and gave in, but this me has realized - go be u and let me be ...

So, in this glorious  age ..... I get to be me and its about damn time.