sobriety

my miracle day involves a gourmet kitchen in a small, clean house with well-arranged light in all of its spaces, no irregular shadows cramped up in the corners, no strange darknesses to jump out at me. the kitchen, filled with every sleek appliance, a smooth finish to all of its surfaces; a pantry stocked with spices and herbs and every obscure cooking object and every conceivable utensil all at my disposal. my miracle day slides itself into a miracle life, where pockets of happiness are like real butter spread thickly on perfect bread, eyesight filled with warmth instead of the blurred strain of nonmiracles. my miracle life involves being the open flower of the burgeouning love i am cultivating here, quiet and vulnerable but very true, honest. the fact that i could smear out my love like oil pastels, carefully blended colors spread on white compliant paper.

i feel strangely separate now, wholly removed from familiarity, which is okay; all of this is a new familiarity, a replacement safety from what i had before. it feels more real, almost. slowly, i am feeling less dissasociated, more reciprocated. i feel as if maybe i might believe that they love me back- first time ever. things are so fervently exposed, it's like we have no fear of each other, nothing to inhibit us from giving each other everything of which we have desperate need. it is surreal for me, a surreality, and a precarious one, an instability of my own creation, the unwillingness to accept that anything good might, for once, stay safe.