The Hidden Heart
And she rides the feather with her eyes,
Escaping the ground in her mind,
Fleeing the sound of her own voice,
Repeating empty, boring lies.
And she sighs as Veronica passes by,
Her scent, her shape, her smile,
Pretending friendship will satisfy,
Aching with unrequited desires.
And she locks the door to her room.
Alone is better than consumed.
This world is eating her alive.
She cuddles her blanket and cries.
by Lucidity Lamb
I love you. Yes, I mean you.
Love is a wonderful, miraculous thing – it is expansive and infinite but can feel so delicate at times. But there will never be a shortage of love unless we stop sharing it. Love begets love, emboldens love, embraces love.
Love inspires us and those around us. It need not be stated or expressed physically to exist. It is color and scent and home. It is where you are, when you are, who you are.
If I let it take me, love is all I feel. I am overwhelmed by it. Exhausted by it and enlivened by it. I don’t need to understand it. I am love. And when all else is in question, even when I am at my lowest, there is no hate in my heart. It cannot fit.