For a long time I equated being good with being silent

I was told to hold contradictions in my mouth

speak up but stay silent

speak up when you have something to say, but don’t say the truth

don’t speak your fear

speak so you can be heard:

I have a rage inside me which has yet to find its limit

it crawls up my back, claws out my eyes and spills from my mouth

I go to war with everyone around me

words ripping//eyes tearing the way through my day

through my pain

I dropped a bottle of perfume. My grandmother gave it to me when I was a child

it smells strong like lilac and it stained the tapestry I had used as my rug 

I can’t help contemplating the strength of the smell 

and fact that the bottle I had kept safe for years is now gone

like the woman who gave it to me

and I wonder if that is a sign or just a bottle or if maybe its a combination of the two

a reminder from the ancestors not to forget them, and a lesson telling me, sometimes bottles break

it’s ok to let them go

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