Ok I’m ready to shed my cells now.

Rip off all my skin and start again. I’ve held onto them for 7 years and my taste buds have changed. So it’s time to wash my hands of the stench. Sit in the discomfort of this animal. Protect my past. Promise my future. Admit that the sorry is not good enough for the stuck.

It’s the inside screaming that shows us the truth. The things we’ve allowed ourselves to say, but then made sure to tuck away. The whispers that we’ve muted. The polite sounds. The signs we’ve looked away from.

And what’s scary does not seem to live in the here but in the after. Where we can see the ugly and the light. Call them for what they are. Decide to stay. Decide to walk away.

So now it seems I have bubbled up to a boil. More proof that it’s time to look in the mirror. Examine those scars. Follow my way to healing. Get to that other side of grief.

And I guess that’s the thing about the growing. How no one ever warned us about the reckoning. The opening of our own eyes. The beat where we spit out our own bullshit. Unfold the clothes. Steam out the demons. Start the freshest way we know how.

My only hope is that we can recognize ourselves on the next page. That we don’t smell like a new car or run like one or forget the nasty parts that got us here.

That we still own up to our bumps and bruises. Become so clear that we can see through our own muddy waters. Yell for the things that still hurt. Get on our backs when we see a full moon. Move our hips to a radio song at 6am.

That’s where I dare us to keep finding ourselves. At the brink, and staring straight down the barrel. Messy and tumbling. Landing straight down. Knees bent. Feet on the ground.