Good Bones

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

Thank you Maggie Smith for acknowledging the reality of our lives. I’ve been battling thoughts of one side vs. the other in the last months. I’ve been battling denial. I’ve been battling how I’ve harmed and how I’ve been harmed. I’ve been battling. I notice I want the impossible: certainty, stability, unwavering truths, un-competing truths. It’s been tough to forgive myself for how I’ve felt I’ve failed. I’ve failed to find the comfortable response. Instead, the inconvenient truth stands before me.

None of this will ever be easy or not messy. Love is the way. Love is often used as a weapon.

The body, though, the body knows. It’s the only way of holding truths against each other and walking forward anyway. If we cannot choose between one truth or the other, can we try to walk forward anyway?

This may sound confused. I may be confused. A truth. I’m willing to not be an expert. I’m willing to be confused.

I have no authority on this matter. Just a desire to be in the conversation.

Thank you for reading.