Basil broth, I soak in a talisman bath, hoping to bring the abundance back. My skin brims with gold, soaking the floor and rippling hard wood. I am more powerful than I remember amidst the ideas that I am beneath, always below. My skin tells stories, the webs between fingers glisten with hope, that I can create a path out of this. Into stories behind my eyelids lit by the internal fire, blazing my resistance, burning up the fear. There is only the memories of almost dying, of wrestling my demons and winning. Each night, falling into dreams that bend me backwards and pour into my soul, the dimensions of lessons that teach me how to remember the old ways, the parts that I was doomed to forget. The sacred art of drawing out the divine, of illuminating and carving the bits that are achingly beautiful. This body flips inside out and I am standing looking into my own eyes, into the bone structure, the heavy mass that I carry. It is brightening, bringing sun to each moment that I plant my future, the songs I sing to bring magic. My histories run deep, a well of pain drawn on for strength and I wouldn’t change a thing. Tides are turning and the bath water runs down my thigh, candle washing me with sight and I let go of all the sadness. The parts that ripped open, bled out, and now are tightly wound scars of brilliance.