the honesty dance

Wanting to believe I am beautiful, managing it
some days—parts of days—struggling to hold on.
Struggling to be beautiful all the way through.
Wanting to always know that I am beloved,
cherished, magnificent, sexy. Failing to
eradicate the doubt. Failing to quite
erase the images of “more prettier” people
from my head. Failing to quite
manage to love my nose. Failing to
surrender vanity.

Failing, struggling, wanting.
Believing that all three of these
will someday cease. Clinging to
that. Clinging to faith. Living for the
moments—hours—half-days—nights
when I do not feel broken.

Let go let go let go.

The sweet soul ache for another. The pitifully small
trust that all things happen in God’s time. The fierce
independence and resolution to tackle
everything with bared hands and no excuses.
The lazy hours of longing. The belief that no one could
ever love me as you can, Lord.
The shame of my own imperfect passion.

I almost wish that I would
stop being moved by music.
It does me no good, stirring my heart like that. Making me
think of poetically melancholy things and dreams
worthy of a teenage-level crush.

And yet…
I stumble. I stumble. I dance.