remix of my sins, angrier, tighter, sadder. (a supercut)
If I’m a rude mean brat girl
with no regard…
I’m your creation.
This is what you get,
to see reflected back.
You’re living inside of me.
If I die you die,
but if you hit
I don’t get harmed.
Don’t be upset,
I’m still your blood—
which is why I’ve spilled—
some truths all over—
the architecture
of our traditions.
This is, after all,
just esoteric wisdom.
from “7 sins”
Sorry to my ancestors for the values I’ve lost and the traits I’ve devalued.
I apologize for all the hurt and the way I disregard the issues that I don’t face.
I am deeply sorry, for my inability to be responsive and readily connected to my community, for the ways I no longer live in connection with my roots.
I am sorry to everyone before me, for I’m sure they relied on their support systems and they supported their systems alike, for I was given tools that they worked to give me, but they never had.
I have become so absorbed by what I’m given and what I expect, I take it for granted when nobody owes me anything.
That I recognize from my history, as much as I was taught that you own what you’ve worked, you get what you’ve been given.
karma is a uranian saturn
no experience, rookie girl,
climbing up the ladder is a swimming current and i’m floating.
know no better but the first is giving bestest,
Collecting souvenirs but when I awake from my dream I was holding nothing
Where am I coming from?
Where do I go?
I exist in this world, to experience the infinity of the universe,
To experience belonging and unity, to remember that there’s a beginning and end and it always looks the same.
The cycle of rebirth and death.
I vow to it and I accept it as the wholeness of life.
Allowing myself to experience what it’s like to be a humanbeing with inner worlds and universes.
Unable to escape the reality of my connection to the earth, even when it’s burning, especially so, when it is burning.
I lay down with the persistent thought that I need to fix myself, wash my face, look clean, get sharp; eat clean, breathe purely, and feed my soul properly, minding my consumption. Forgetting I am the dirt- that lays beneath the flowers as fertilizer for what’s next, the same but rearranged set of particles found on earth, a piece of the bigger mothering planet that carries me in her womb.
I cannot be more untouched than she, picture perfect, no odor, no flaws, no scars, and no aging. Without a sign of skin texture, no mountains and no hills, without the fluidity of minerals and water and blood and chemicals, without the folds and the bags and the rolls and the waves, without the clear livelihood of mortality.