Within me, it was alive.

I didn’t know.

Maybe just dormant

as it carried and cried.

 

Cracks appearing,

scary, unnerving.

 

I quaked.

I shook.

Left feeling disconnected.

 

It was not me,

it was my foundations.

 

It was never meant to be

the only path,

the only destination.

 

Life had to be lived,

society had to be shifted.

 

It wasn’t easy,

and I refuse to minimise now.

It was fucking scary.

 

And oh, the aching.

I don’t wish that on you,

or even my oppressor.

 

Each scarring memory

serves as a signpost,

my connection

and eventual knowing.

 

Oh those memories —

a catalogue of records

more exhaustive

than our collective libraries.

 

Scattered,

disorganised,

confusing as fuck.

I can’t take this much!

 

It constrains,

it contorts,

mask firmly affixed.

 

How do I exist,

in what I do not fit?

 

Those links,

they line,

they fire

and they spread.

 

My knowing expands.

 

My place,

my space

stays stagnant and constant.

 

It doesn’t shift

but the pressure does.

 

It’s anger,

the rage,

the sadness in knowing.

 

The learnings come slow,

as they should.

 

Patience has never been my friend.

 

Then the outlet.

Then the control —

but not the kind

that inhibits the human soul.

 

Then in the moment,

it quaked —

both in my shifting inside

and in my physical realm.

 

The fissure wasn’t my breaking.

This is not my spiritual awakening.

This is my aligning.