LOVER

Yrsa Daley-Ward

1. Every frightening thing

   every cruel thing

   everything that I thought made me less than

   everything that I was too scared to talk about,

   the ceiling, when the unimaginable was taking place

   the ground, where my face was planted

   everything I thought would alienate me from my fellow human

   all that I tried,

   all that I feared was weathering me on the inside

   the dissonant blue notes of the soul

   and the things that I dread

   make me a softer human, a stronger human, more dynamic in love,

   an urgent artist.

    

2. Every frightening thing

   every cruel thing,

   everything that you fear makes you less than,

   all you shudder to bring about in thought.

   The missteps, the black cycles, the humiliations,

   everything that you think could alienate you from your fellow human/

   from the world in general, everything that could/should have broken you up into pieces

   has already increased your capacity in another avenue,

   (whether or not you have found it).

    

    

3. Sometimes I consider the purpose of shame. I think of shame as an intelligent mechanism for keeping us good and quiet

   trapped precisely where we are,

   where we have been. Will we beat ourselves up over yesterdays circumstances? Will we allow others to do the same? Will we continue doing it to each other? Will we call ourselves the things we were calling ourselves last year

   even when they are no longer true?

    

4. Usually, words make things easier. I’m a convert. It helps to have a thing to call yourself, a one-person cult in which to belong

   a drum to beat

   a scripture (of sorts.)

   AND

   What is true of language is that it must evolve. Be sure that the world you built with your words is large enough. Test it, see if you fit. If the definition needs expanding, now is the time. You, too, are changing shape.

    

5. I cannot stop giving thanks for all that I thought might kill me.

   I’m deadly serious. Every day, I find new bones;

   strangely enough, they are all mine. They were old forms, necessary forms, essential bodies. Every month I find a new swell of truth;

   how can this be? Are we endless?

   Is this one of the twisting mysteries of life?

   I’m in love with the terror and beauty of it.

Carnival has begun