But inside it is warm with blankets and a heartbeat that is skipping, in time and in happiness.
I've been learning a lot about people who write. People who are different. People who are less likely to be in crowds of people and loud sounds. People who appreciate the tightness of a shirt collar or the pinch of slender, tall heel. People who can focus, very clearly, when the rest of the world is drown away.
I've been feeling very in my skin as of late.
With a solitary bank lamp and the perfect amount of chapstick on my smile. Dots of light on the end of every eyelash as I look down to read or to write or to imagine. There is a delicate feeling upon the corners of my mouth. My lips have been curved into a smile these days. The kind that feels electric and supple and makes me want to place my fingers on the parenthetical lines around my mouth to enjoy them. To study them.
So many things have built this tenderness and this truth. It feels good, tonight, that they are being silently celebrated, here, and in a more just manner on the other side of the city.
It feels good to be worthy of protection.
In the last three years I've learned that the only strength worth any weight will always involve a showing of our most soft and precious targets, hidden by nothing. Only the light hitting their nude and honest selves, a posture of dignity laced within them, will set us free.
be well; be loved,
k.
(image: bart dosa via inneroptics tumblr)
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