I know you are certain you have nothing to say. Darling, I know that is not true. You are an enigma created from sneezing stars. Inherent art. Have you ever seen the way the wind lifts the leaves, ever so gently? Have you ever felt your mother tear your chest open in a single sentence? Something gaping in you, whispering, “You’re not enough.”
Feel my delicate, unassuming breath on your cheek instead. Now, you are alone in a coffee shop surrounded by a usual ambience and still worlds away from home. Have you ever sipped on your chai tea latte wondering what home is supposed to feel like anyway?
Get comfortable, take a seat. Write about your ordinary ideas of beauty, whether those sensations live in city lights or in our sun’s gaze or fresh denim or a pair of arms. Dance away your fears on boundless beaches, or in your living room, this time no shame. Sing the wrong notes, if only to assume the courage to talk about your pain. Romanticize flowers left on a neighbor’s doorstep, not your own. In effect, you allow others to do the same. That is, move on from their pain.
Even though my words are clumsy today, I promise–you have so much to convey, and I know it’s enough and so are you. So stay.