This is for those of us whose story is written in frayed parchment with no cover and no happy ending.
Who have celebrated New Year’s alone on their living room floor, surrounded by kisses and confetti.
For those who have long tired of being told to hope, because “look at me! I found love and you can, too!”
For when the Love ain’t coming.
Those of us who have made meals of solitude, feasted in loneliness. For flirty happy hours. For budgets for ubers and allotments for human contact.
For those of us who have done everything right, and learned to love ourselves. For when we’ve stopped looking and just stare. For solo vacations and blessed strangers that catch our good side. For “you should be here” captions addressed to everyone and no one.
For Us that have long held our ceremonial burial for The Dream; that have started new books when closing a chapter just wasn’t enough. For our New Normal, when hope cannot outlive wombs. For those of us sick and tired of celebrating with our circle and hoping the blessing truck has one more stop left.
For those of us who no longer mourn and wish everyone else would stop asking how we can “still be so happy”. For the courage to not be ok. For the times we have died and come alive. For the end of an era. For our new beginning.
For phoenixes emerging from the ashes to discover they are the Sun. For those of us just discovering our gravitational pull. For life after death. For stories that do not end, or begin, with Him. For radical happiness because, in spite of, or however that shit comes because dammit, WE DESERVE.
For all my mosaics, making beauty of the bits.