I love the stories that are told through our messes—
though little specs of sticky tar on the sheets
slightly darker spots of joyous filth stained into the foot of the bed
the neat, tiny piles of sand that walked itself in between my toes
telling of beach days, bare feet, hot pavement

The calm green highlighter marks,
subtly violet, speckly blueberry smudges
barely there drips of coffee and blood on the creamy linen duvet
chocolate stains on the pillows—
speaking to me of sleepless nights, soothing the soul with the littlest of life’s pleasures
whispering about the mornings that follow after
barely holding it together
absentmindedly sipping a creamy cuppa
warm liquid dripping slowly down my chin

they tell me about afternoons wide awake
head spinning with the thrill of new thoughts to hold onto
new dreams to explore
curled up in the twisted sheets leftover from disjointed mornings
sheets that obtain the last remnants of lingering pain
from the unexpected pregnancy
that I begged my body to release as my only wish on my 29th birthday
reminding me that wishes may come true
even if they din’t give me time to make it to the toilet
before the grainy gush of hot blood poured out of me dripping on everything it shouldn’t
pooling on the far side of the bed, a welcome, if not gruesome tide

an accidental image taken as i sat on the window sill of our moving truck trying to capture the creatures in the road, and the dog took it upon herself to try to jump out the window after them, nearly taking me with her

I love the ripples and creases in a messy bed
the textures of the textiles carefully chosen with sweet dreams in mind
with heavy glass beaded sleeping masks to sooth heavier eyes

I love the feel, the aroma of slightly snagged silky black pillowcases
whose fibers hold all the salt my body wouldn’t
my tears, my feverish sweat, my midnight crumbs

I love the peanut butter cup smooshed into the dark grey linen fibers
in the middle of the bed at the height of my back
slowly transferring onto each costume change throughout the week

the stories that are told through our messes
are the stories that build the sensory narratives of our lives
the mistakes they’re made up of
wrapping our humanity in tiny, imperfect bows

I always thought I would regret the messes
mask them, scrub them out of existence
I always thought I wouldn’t want to remember the times
when I was weak, vulnerable, existing out of necessity
not purpose, not pleasure

sugar free campfire ribs after driving to canada to see brand new

Now that I’m here, seeing the truest version of my life I’ve ever beheld
i’m thinking what a miracle
these messes have imprinted themselves like cave paintings
in all the parts of my world I always thought were insignificant
i’m thinking what a miracle
that these are the messes i love the most
for these are the messes that remind me who i am