Inventory

Faeloria

I didn’t know, when I started, that I would find rooms in me.

Packed tight. Abandoned. Things shoved in for safekeeping, which is to say, for hiding. If no one sees it, including me, maybe it won’t hurt. Maybe it won’t be shameful. Maybe I can still pass.

But here is what was in the rooms:

Goodness wanting to do good.

Love wanting to love and be loved.

Desire desiring to be desired.

Grief. Deep sorrow. Presence aching for more presence.

Fear. So much fear.

Grace. A growing grace.

Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.… so much love

And this: I am a note looking for its song. Looking for the music I belong inside of. It is a particular kind of pain, to be a note without its song. To carry pitch and tone and no place to land. No place to vibrate in.

I have hope. But hope is hard to hold.

And yet, here. This. The rooms cracked open. The inventory taken. Not because I am healed or whole or finally fixed, but because I looked. Am looking. Because I said here is what is in me and did not look away.

Corruptible. Majestic. Horror and beauty both.

The monsters under the bed, the ones I was so certain were real —

Yes.

Yes to all of it.

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