Dear inner critic

I see you over there.

Scowling and growling. Hissing and pissing all over the floor.

Drooling and shitting on everything like a baboon. You know I’ve made it part of my job to get real good at ducking out of the way of your shit slinging.

Your fangs can’t grab me, because I am no longer a mammal, I am a tornado. A volcano that not only errupt up, but down.

Down into the dirt my ancestors wore all over their naked and bleeding bodies. In worship for this world and all its birth and death cries. with desire and wanting for what they didn’t know was possible.

In wailing, howling for a dream that they didn’t even know they had.

This world of chaos I carry could never be tamed. Even if you had an army of monkeys in bulletproof vests. Hanuman himself couldn’t corral my gusts.

His mother, Janaki Mata, gave me the vision to see beyond. To be beyond. To go, beyond.

Before humanity and all beings breathed on this Earth there was an abundance of sweet cherries without pits, and salt water slathered over rock beings, sleeping beneath the waning and waxing.

These lands that hold me know that I walk with a reference and an uncontrollable soul contract for aliveness. This sky knows I do not need to be tamed, in her vastness she carries my name.

No, no, NO! I do not need

to be tamed.

My center is found not just within, but reflected back to me like moonlight over the Adriatic Sea. These stars know I worship them as I twirl, and lose myself to the rhythm–

as I surrender to the fire that burns bright in the center of my sweaty, beaten up, bad girl, eternally good, boisterously bosomed, beautiful, force of nature,

called this,

sacred,

heart.