This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.

This is where I’m going to put all my insecurity,
because I can’t handle it otherwise.

I will be honest and true, an open book, as I always have been
and I’ll stop hiding and I’ll start obeying the prompt
to live in this light, this place of grace for myself 
if I can just put my shame on the shelf somewhere else

for safekeeping.

Because even though I hate it’s little fingers of thorns, 
this is all I’ve ever known. A security blanket
of emotional wreckage. The place I’ve always been able to go
and rest and know, through all the ugly, that at least
the reflection was my own.

And here I am, owning it

and not letting it own me


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