I am going through the branches
\nof myself.
\nPicking off the old fruit.
\nThe leaves that opened at night
\nand never gathered sun.
\nThe love with eyes that accuses
\nme in my dreams.
\nTo the ground,
\nlike blue stones!<\/p>\n
The twenty years of an occupation
\nthat tasted sour,
\noff with that branch,
\nas if it never happened!
\nAll the screaming
\nI heard in childhood,
\nbreak the record,
\nreturn the silence
\nthat was a birthright
\nand I never had.<\/p>\n
Give me room to grow.
\nThe sweetness of a soft voice,
\nthe sigh of the bay.
\nPrune,
\nsnip,
\npick,
\nuntil I have a soul
\nthat lets in light,
\nthat hears the wind,
\nthat smiles unafraid anymore
\nof being lost,
\nof having no one near me.<\/p>\n
I am cleaning things up,
\nkeeping only what is true,
\nunbroken,
\ncups ready to be filled,
\na self amicable,
\nand saying to the world,
\nmy door is open.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I am going through the branches of myself. Picking off the old fruit. The leaves that opened at night and never gathered sun. The love…<\/p>\n