Floor Board Song
There is a spot in my kitchen,
where all the light seeps through,
it cascades beyond those window panes,
and lights the way for you.
The incense is slowly burning,
the kettle steams the room,
these moments in this tiny flat,
they are our sacred tune.
My heart will always sing I love you,
because you are where I belong,
and every creek and flicker and laughter,
this is our life, our song.
My ode to you is found
within these wooden floors,
within our pots of coffee,
within our broken doors.
My ode to you is that
you will never sleep alone,
you will always have a friend in me,
you will always have a home.
Golden Again
To protest is to live,
I mean,
really live.
To live is to say your name
over and over again,
until it sounds like a melody,
until you can hear the beauty ringing
in the echoes between the letters of your personhood.
Until you can remember the pain you felt
a whole year ago from today,
when you sat on the floor with your aching heart,
and the strength that you found in your gut and in your arms to grab onto your kitchen chair and hoist yourself back up.
To grow is to ache,
my dear,
to grow is to stretch and bleed and burn,
and become graceful,
and become golden,
and become good.
So I will smile through the grit and through the giving,
and I will brush the hair out of my face,
and remind my hands to touch my home with tenderness and warmth.
And I will say the names of people and things,
and I will force myself to love,
because one day I will be golden,
and one day is good enough for me.
