I slept with dreams,
in liminal honesty.

My hand outstretched to soul, gathering to me angelic speak.

I hear myself explaining to people I once held close and dear:

“I can’t get back up. You don’t understand.
The person you remember has died, shed away.
My old ways of rising no longer exist to support me.
I am growing new ones after many towers fell at once.
Through gentleness, through quiet presence with my thoughts and feelings.
Through eyes and skin touched by nature, through prayer.
There is no longer space for rushing, powering through, chin up,
or other dishonest ways—pretense and pretend, concave heart.
My body, mind, and life—I deserve my absolute attention and care.”

I awoke holding new space for myself,
grateful I took the time to rub my tired feet and legs,
to crawl into bed and nap awhile,
to drink my water down with real thirst.

© 2025 Raven | Jasmine on the Grave. All rights reserved.