Nothing Compares To You

I can barely remember the bareness of the woman I was in the past. Surely I was more radiant, more dynamic, and disobedient, right? Surely the potion of rituals I drank which consumed my reality and allowed for the sense of freedom associated with youth, aided in my glory. No? Well, I am skeptical of the distance I used to have with myself. In this temporary moment, sitting among the possessions that create my current home, catching fabric on my broken fingernails, brushing the loose hair away from my eyes, and moving my body so subtlety to the fucking outrageously heart-wrenching vocals of Sinead O Connor, I see that I am a shell of the past; a ring in the trunk of a tree; a mountain underwater; a bouncing marble; a selective, super-sensical, soul-fearing, sacrificial, sacrosanct; sipping slowly from the reserve of energy alive in all things. Shall I bow before the image of myself in the half-lit, foggy bathroom mirror, only to show my obedience and loyalty to this nurturing current of electricity I have become? Or is that the job of my lover or my daughter? Should I still remain humble in this transition or can the touch of sunshine turn me to stone? My skin feels like the sight of water dripping from a dying petal.

Yes, I disengage whenever possible.