What is wrong with me? I asked
What is wrong with me. I said
There’s something wrong with me. I thought
I’m broken. I believed
To fix me I undertook a searching and fearless moral inventory. I took a dictionary of faults, and measured every one against my character, personality, history, soul
I found every one of these faults in me.
I was a junk drawer that had been spilled on the floor and I was that mettle of nails/keys/Lego blocks/buttons/coupons/leaking batteries and the dust of old Cheerios and lint
My arms and legs hurt at the joints and then separated. My heart have two big pumps, then let released the veins and lifted away
My liver, my kidneys loosened from the tissues. Everything
f l o a t e d
a w a y
I didn’t have a hole in my soul
I was a hole. All that was left was the hurt, the trauma, the shame, the ashes
These parts floated into a forest and hovered
They were cold in winter, hibernated with the foxes, sleeping gently
They woke in early spring, peeked out of the den, my nose poked out, but didn’t want to go yet
My eyes wandered out and looked for signs of early grass
They stayed in the forest. They went to little bridges over creeks, watching the creek flow by
Then the hole wanted to touch the cold water
My hand wanted to touch the cold water
It called a hand to lower down and touch it.
The arm joined and supported the hand
Legs came and carried them to another bridge
The heart joined to pump the oxygen so they could walk farther
The hole center called my organs came back
When my head came they asked it to leave the thought behind and just walk together a while
They walked for months until all the body parts came together around the hole, the trauma, shame
And I was whole
Whole with the brokeness
The history
The trauma
The shame
