I can’t recall a time that I flowed so seamlessly through my wounds. Looking in the mirror, I find the edges and pull my breath to leap my chest with longing. I tried to tear apart the frame and unravel the roots as if it was that easy to destroy divinity. These racked ribs carry histories, the fragments that make me whole and yet can’t define my essence, those delicate carved bones of sweetness. I am collecting up the tangled webs, keeping my hands to my chest and reminding myself to let it go. Of those pieces that no longer serve my highest self, that bend me further than I am able to go. So I find balance in handing it over to the goddess, to the intuitive and bold brightness within. No longer looking into faces and hoping for recognition, I recognize and follow the path that meets me and carries forward only. My stories fumbled, so much that I had to lift the floor boards to find my rivers of carnelian, the golden carcass of spirit that bled beautifully. Then the cloak fell and I could see, the skin that finally fit me. Rising wave of kindness, the ripples that flow endlessly outward, carrying songs farther than my voice ever could.