Swipe Left On Perfection

This last week, I have taken a break from writing the blog to focus on my new training routine, my client’s programming blocks, studying for my ToPik, and furthering my Training Certs…., But mostly, and of course writing, but has been mostly book focus as that is currently coming along nicely.

This week, I decided I wanted to just talk straight from the heart and give you two pieces of me.

The Softest Landing

The world is a jagged edge, a neon glare,
A symphony of textures I wasn’t meant to wear.
One side of me is a hummingbird, frantic and bright,
Chasing the nectar of a new, fleeting light,
While the other is a stone, deep under the lake,
Crave-heavy for the silence that the busy world breaks.

I spent forty years looking for the door,
The “hush” in the hallway, the rugs on the floor.
I looked for a person, a place, or a sign,
To anchor the lightning that travels my spine.
I wanted a landing, a velvet-lined space,
To hide from the friction of keeping the pace.

But the static began to soften its tune,
Like the pull of the tide or the phase of the moon.
I realized the anchor wasn’t tethered outside,
It was tucked in the ribs where the heartbeat resides.
The “nothing” I sought wasn’t absence or void,
It was the peace of a system no longer destroyed.

I am the stim and the hyper-fixated glow,
The rush of the river, the ice underneath’s flow.
I wrapped my own arms ’round the girl made of wires, And dampened the heat of the sensory fires.

No longer a transit, no longer a race.

I’ve turned my own skin into my softest place.

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The Evidence of Bloom

The Evidence of the Bloom

The hummingbird still darts, the stone still sinks,
But now there’s a ghost at the water’s brinks.
A voice from the past, a shadow, a chill,
That says, “You are broken. You’re standing too still. The trauma is marrow, it’s deep in the bone. You’ll always be frantic, you’ll always be prone.”

They whispered that “healing” meant “quiet and plain,”
That I’d have to erase every spark in my brain.
They promised the damage was a permanent stain,
That a girl made of triggers is a girl made of pain.
But they don’t see the architecture under the skin,
Or the way that I’ve learned to let the light in.

Healing isn’t a shedding of who I have been,
It’s not “fixing” the wiring or “curing” the spin.
It’s the day I stopped flinching at my own inner noise,
And traded the “survival” for a different kind of poise.
I am AuDHD. A storm and a glade,
And I am the survivor of the fires they made.

Every deep breath is a “no” to the past,
A soft space to land that was built to last.
They said I was stagnant, a permanent “no,”
But look at the garden I’ve managed to grow.
I am the witness, the judge, and the truth:
I am the peace I was denied in my youth.

My body is no longer a place I must flee,
I am the miracle they said couldn’t be.