the fire within has a language of its own

I just spilled over the edge of who I held myself to be,

again.

Now, it doesn’t matter what I think.

again.

I stopped ignoring what I didn’t like to do and realized I had changed,

again.

I was googling me from the inside.

The knife wanted to cut.

I let it feel like cutting.

But I couldn’t cut what I loved any longer

His (this) skin is too thin

His (this) heart too tender

His (this) love too wild and true.

So I put down the knife

and used my hand.

My hands love the body of life

My hands love to support the body of life

My hands love to bring oil to the dry places

And they needed no imagery to do so.

I feel like I just climbed Mount Everest

I am nearly breathless

The air quality here is pure

And I am loosened by the only means I have at my fingertips:

Touch.

I had to get closer 

to feel the touch of myself,

for direct contact with me.

My fingertips and the palm of my hand felt the paint moving with me

Gliding, scratching, slower and more slowly

I listened to the feel of it

this pulse of my life

Living.

Sensual.

Free of the rules I had mistaken for truth

I was listening

and became silent

being the silence

for one pulse.

and another.

Saturated

Red

Permanent rose

Flaming cadmium yellow engulfed a red birch

The black charred trunk remains

Able to hold the glow 

Of the fire that burns in me

Of the fire that moves me out of the old rooms of this house.

All I want to do is follow this thread

It has a language of my own making.

It is in my hands.