Labyrinth

I've had to labyrinth my body to
make madness make sense. Now I'm
trying to untangle. I know a labyrinth
is beguiling. Believe me, I'm meant to
get lost in here. It's filled with countless
rooms filled with treasure boxes filled with
bottles filled with feathers. But then
what? What did you ever want from
a maze but the organization of insanity?

When you sneak up on the pain
it bites you but there's almost always
another blind alley to duck down, a
monster waving its arms, a ceiling so
high it seems like it doesn't exist,
a hard dirt-packed floor. Walls that
are cracked creaked mossy and moist.
Sometimes an old stone fountain, sometimes
the walls are bushes. Who knows? Where
does this go? When you're approaching
center sometimes you find yourself back
at the very edge. Love looks like loss. Loss
looks like love. We're meant to get lost in this love.

But when you tire of love that always feels like loss or always
leads to loss, tire of labyrinthine logic and the loneliness of
loving lacklusterly or overly lustily, when you don't want to
feel like a little girl climbing around in a pit, digging a
labyrinth to make living underground make sense, when you
want to climb up above ground and taste the light on your
face, understand down and up and family and tree and
truth and honesty and loyalty, when you
long for your big coming out, the revelation of your
freaky side, which is, hilariously, calm, practical and reliable,

when you are ready to stand, small and simple and
a little dizzy in your own truth, then today is the
day to make your own home, make your own
famiy. Today is the day to take the arm of someone
worthy of you and hold on tight and let tears fall and
let ache ache and reveal your own sadness to your own self.
Then you can be your own best friend, standing in a green
grassy field, tree in the distance. Then you can hold your
own hand. Then you can reach out for someone else's
hand. Then love and loss are not tangled together. They
are simply what they are. Love is love. Loss is loss.