12 Steps, Part One.

There are various states of broken
And the hardest one is the time when you put all the pieces on the table and you hold the glue in one hand and your dignity in the other and you start to try and put all those pieces back together.

You can't know if all the parts are even there,
You just start in good faith and hope you swept the floor cleanly
Because that's where you were last:
the floor,
And now not only are there shattered shards but must and dust and dog hair,
Caked on crinkly like uncut rose petals from the ones you keep looking at and can't throw away even though they've been dead three days...
[But are they dead now or were they dead when the florist cut them?]

Healing feels like scooping dogshit sometimes
The smell is unpleasant and worse because it came out of something you're supposed to love and squishes inside the plastic: warm in your cold winter hands so nice but disturbing as fuck because let's be real we're talking about defecation, but you're supposed to see yourself as beautiful, it's the wabi sabi way and you learned wisdom from Japan.

There is nothing like sitting at the coffee shop with your 12 step book to advertise your performance artist back alley destructive masochism; as though someone seeing you there will give you virtue instead of the realization that every foot you place in front of itself again from now til eternity might feel like paying penance.

But goddammit. Someday the promise exists that you will actually believe that somebody loves you. And you are willing to scoop up shit with your bare hands and crawl across shattered vases and stare into the face of void-filled black holes created by your enemies for eternity to know the potential of what that means.

And you want to love somebody too.

There is somebody out there. And you want to love them with a part of you buried deep under all that waste paper dumpster fire terror.

You'll unearth it til your nails bleed.
You'll unearth it.