I turn the soft, reasonable voice up.
I learn to surrender to the movement of myself.
I learn to battle the stalemate of cognitive dissonance.
My feet dance the tile floor, cold in kitchen,
with eyes closed, feeling for marble countertop,
knowing I won't slam my ribs into it,
knowing I know the way.
Past the microwave, into the way,
where living room leaves to eating,
my flesh a fallible figure, not forever.
Leaving my past in the garage,
I shake my way out of the sliding glass door,
leaving it open for lizards and limericks
to enter and annihilate me by morning.
Spitting round and round,
I come to a standstill, look at the ground
and tell it I don't need it.
So, I float, leaving like a swimmer,
backstroke between stars,
burying my head in beliefs
that once killed me, but no longer limit.
I am a pastoral goodbye.
I am let loose.
I am moving.
I am more than muscle and memory.