When light drips from the moon, I wonder what she sees in me.
As her light stalks through cracks, does she feel the longing threaded through the hairs of my arm, and slicing through the rim of my smile?
When light bulges from the moon, thrumming the water of my weight, does she sense my hunger for a lover’s hips touching my inner thighs, for a breath down my neck, in caress?
When the moon’s light fingers me from sleep, to wind circles over my skin, moth light, white light, does she taste
“Sometimes it can be the fear of writers block that keeps us from writing. We believe we don’t have the words. We get stuck. My one word answer; repetition. I learned the value of repetition through being a parent. Mothering is deep study in practices of repetition. Doing and saying the same things over and over again. Recently I listened to Black feminist and performance memoirist Gabrielle Civil2 speak on repetition. She offered a spiritual as an example;
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child sometimes I feel like a motherless child sometimes I feel like a motherless child a long long way from home
What being a mother taught me is that the repetition is not for nothing. And the point that Gabrielle Civil makes is that it is not, in fact exactly the same thing over and over again, but subtly different each time. It is building. It is, she says, accumulating to get you to something new.” Taken fromCreatique, Foluke Taylor.
I don’t remember when I gave up on myself being enough, being worthy.
I don’t remember when I gave myself away to others at the expense of not keeping any goodness for me.
I don’t remember when I started to hate on myself and wishing myself away, wishing myself into something or someone else. Anything else but this. Anything other than who I really am.
I don’t remember when I started to hide myself away became secretive and dishonest as a means of protection and advancement.
I don’t remember when I stopped being my own best friend and started to seek this relationship, this love and attention elsewhere.
I don’t remember when I betrayed myself by thinking that I was someone who didn’t deserve to be here, as someone worthy of love and happiness and joy.
I don’t remember when I started to listen to others, the outside world and stopped listening to my heart, to my own wisdom.
I don’t remember when I stopped just {being} instead of doing. When {being} was enough.
I don’t remember when I stoped paying attention to what lights me up, my wants and needs, what makes me smile.
I don’t remember when I stopped being a child and took the burdens of the world on to my little shoulders like they belonged there.
I don’t remember when I stopped being in love with myself and gave this love to others who were not deserving of my love, who could not see me as me.
I don’t remember when I began to think I needed other people to love me instead of me just loving on me.
I don’t remember when or how or why all this happened, I just feel it. And now, here I am trying to get back to me, to me loving on me, the most important treasure, lost.
Living Wild Studios 
