alive/living for the weekend. [let sh*t burn, part v.]

I felt like her. For once. Felt like the woman I always knew I could be. Present. Alive. Alluring, Fierce. Sensual. Careful. Sure. Mischievous. Dangerous. In all the good ways.

Again, alive.

I’ve always been her. Woe to hiding behind the false assurances from men who never mattered. Woe to the measuring of your worth against what someone would be willing to do to you once the lights were out and the inhibitions were supposedly left at the door. Woe to the days of sensuality being a waiting game.

The way I look at myself in the mirror is no longer a game. I look at the reflection and see a woman that deserves to experience lights on with no shame. In either he or I. I look like a woman who will no longer tell herself that her personality will just have to be enough. Love will conquer you in totality.

I let the remnants of misplaced lust and battered love play house for too long.

Who owns this house? I do.

All this after a crash and burn. My body gave up on me. The weariness of my spirit was too much. Misplacing my glasses that morning was all that it took. I felt so lost, so disheveled. It felt like my entire existence was slipping through my fingers. I slipped a lot during these past few years. Fourteen years. I keep looking back at 2012 as the year when I finally fell. And the rest of my life up to this point as a failure. Whatever expectations I had of life were shattered. I didn’t know what to do with the dream I once had.

I told someone that I’m not sure if I even know how I dream anymore. The future feels so bleak sometimes, downright pointless. Like give me a reason to even think about how to conduct a life that I’m speedracing into a disbelief of its purpose?

Something does keep me alive. Keeps me wondering about that ‘what ifs…?” of my life.

Weekends like the one just last are The Creator’s gifts in a season of loneliness. A sign and wonder of shame transfiguring into freedom. The other side of the river, on the other side of the fire.

I’m ready for a different fire. Ready to walk around like scorched earth. The loves of my life – and the muses in my life’s wake – dream to be singed by me. A walking flame. The epitome of fire and desire. Turned on by my own fire.

That’s Godly womanhood.