My mother’s hands, the same ones that held my own, when I was learning to walk, were not fast enough to catch me when I decided that I was going to run I was precocious and believed I knew it all, that somehow I had outgrown her , my very first friend, and that I was invincible; I could not fail. She was there as I turned every corner, though I pretended she did not exist. Despite my arrogance, I still landed into her arms with every fall, desperate for the cure of her doting kiss. Nursed back to health, I chose to forget her loving care and was once again dedicated to my own detriment. In a rush to grow up, I experimented with every poison, convinced that it was surely what would help me mature. In my teenage haste, I failed to observe my mother’s hands folded in prayer, and wondered instead when she would distance herself from my despair. In reality, she was asking God to help repair the lost little lamb that took too many wrong turns...
Accident-prone yet bulletproof, resilience courses through my veins. After pulling shrapnel from my own hell-bent self-destruction, all I was left with was me. Through embracing my darkness, I found the light. Here lives a collection of poetry, prose, and reflections on trauma, survival, desire, and becoming.