Once upon a time my heart 
was scattered into a thousand pieces.

Shards of glass, glimmers of fire, 
small hypotheticals of storms.

These stolen things, away from myself 
and given to others, always searching 
for the next elation.

Always searching for the next person 
who could and would grapple 

with their littlest piece as if it was the whole:
Who am I to be hurting even in the distance?

The ring of I love you as a truth sits hollow in my teeth 
and when I eat I can feel the pull a little less each time.

Less and less do I wander in wonderment at those 
who previously captivated me so mightily.

Yet even as I shift my own narrative, 
I would be delinquent if I did not admit 
to the pain of growing.

This giving away of those small and powerful moments 
not as things I need back so much as nuances 
in a greater tapestry. 

They give the currently developing colors 
so much more depth and substance when ignited.

But look at me now, nothing of vitality, nothing of 
celestial impact, nothing of that divine kind.

I am a cactus waiting for water and being conservative 
because I know that I have wants, but they 
must be untangled from my needs.

Within myself there is 
an oasis, most times.

I have my own waters of love to cultivate 
this blooming of tender red petals against 
the dawns beckoning, 

I have enough to outlast the scorching 
wilderness of the day, 

I have enough to furl up against 
the night and return again.

But it takes so much.
And it takes so much.

I know that it is good.

Even then I say in my moments of loneliness, 
I want you, I need you, I crave you.

But you, in particular or in the 
collective spirit, are not here.

You are not near enough to visit nor 
brave enough to call nor lover enough 
to cut me away.

Instead, I have my own shears by which to clip 
these mewling buds, attempts at leaves
 
that cannot be sustained 
in the current environment.

It is good.

For I know that I wish to leave this place 
and head to verdant forests, overflowing 
with luscious flora and fauna with which 

to dance and sing, 
mend up old wounds 
and weave new dreams.

Hell, it will be so golden 
and so pristinely green that this cactus 
will burst into a tree, 

spines turning into roots 
and branches so free, 
internal becoming external 

so that I say to myself 
lovingly I see, 
I see, 

I be.

siiaah -- March 9th, 2015

PRONOUNS: FAMILY + SHE + T[HE]Y

MXS. ISA LEE LOVE JONES RENÉ, BAPS