I wrote this on 11:11, and I had two wishes. One, that you, a sister yet a stranger, stumble over this today. And I know you have read so many letters; some of which may have torn your heart apart, but this one is different. This one is from me. And I once had a broken heart too; fears and doubts and self-pity poke on it like little needles on a daily basis. We don’t like needles, except for sewing buttons and holes. But, maybe, if you grow stronger fingers, you’ll have the courage to pull all those needles away. Use them to stitch the little gaps instead. I did. You can do it too.
My second wish? I hope your sewn-in, patched-on, doubting heart will become so whole and full that you’ll run out of room to keep all the nice and warm things inside. I hope it bursts into the world at the tips of your fingers. I hope they see your light. I hope everything you touch becomes art. But we’re not there yet, right?
Hold on. Here’s what I wanted to tell you:
Don’t put that brush down, darling
It’s beautiful. It’s odd.
It’s irregular, just like you
and the pigment on your skin, the warts on your arms like little gems
you always wanted to pick and pull away
An Artist put it there; it is not an accident
that you are brown or yellow or black, it wasn’t paint spill
you are carefully planned, like a blueprint of the house God plans to live in
You are a temple. Sacred. Cared for.
And humans don’t really know the things that are priceless; we throw rocks,
they are diamonds from within
Under your skin, there’s something strong and shining and unbreakable, not bones
Don’t hide it. Don’t put yourself away like the paper you crumpled, no
you are not flimsy
only irregular, just as everyone else
You shout with lines and patterns and colors into the world
You are an art making art and it’s all that matters
Writer, poetry-maker and believer of human hearts.