Rituals of Safety

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-2:27

(Listen to this poem here)

What do you do to console yourself?

I weep.
Sometimes I take a photo of myself, face broken, tears streaming down,
I document crying.

I pray.
I have an old-fashioned relationship with God above all Gods.
They are always listening to me,
sometimes I ask them to speak to me.

I worry about the consequences of my distress on my daughters.
This feels sad, it keeps me alive, heals me eventually.
Responsibilities have their function.

I leave.
I am not here anymore,
I have walked away.

In my diary when I was 21, I pasted a sticker of Lucy Van Pelt running.
She is wearing a headband and her pony tail bobs as she jogs.
Peanuts for inspiration.

I run.
I walk miles when my heart breaks,
I out-walk misery.

I get a fever.
No one takes it personally, 
I get rest. I might even write a poem in bed.

I read poetry.
I remember that time when I chose to die.
Then changing my mind and choosing to live.

I summon my inner Scarlett O’Hara
I’m the one who survives. Thrives.
The cat with nine lives. Ninety-nine, in my case.

I talk to myself.
Oh we are batuni.
Me and I, we are friends.

I grow leaves on my body.
Branches extend themselves, moonlight makes space for me.
I am there, but not here.