Of Glorious Fortitude

I've been getting rid of things. Trinkets and toys and forgotten clothes. Books and cups and various assortments of kitchen pots. The more I let it go, the more I see what I have. The more I have thoughts flying free, ready to grab like a key. With wings, flying around and around. Waiting for the one, just one that I need. Less and less things. Getting rid of 450 and more items, not dreams. Maybe I could even do it again, lessen the load a bit more.
Even as more suitors present themselves, I find myself ever so curious about her. About me. How she feels to be in this time of contentment and relative peace. I haven't cried, not really. Not longing and wishing or begging for a different reality. This is the only one I may ever hope to possess. What a glory, what a joy. I'm my own dream master, soup chef, and telephone telecaster. What does it all mean? Does it matter if it rhymes or reads with ease?
The zinc made my tummy ache and the chicken stock was warmly soothing, but didn't aid in relief. I set tonight aside to heal and fix and soak away the dread. What dread? I hardly even feel dread, really. Tomorrow shall come early and I shall rise, sooner or later, sooner the better.
Swimming in gratitude. Maybe a flotation device or round tube is all I see. Enough to keep me alive and give me air. This cat, this home, this lovely peace. Heaven has shown herself to me. It looks different to me now. Not really anyone is near to me. It's a new leaf or different shade, realities I never knew laying themselves bare. A gift that was carefully, but also haphazardly communicated. Mashed into life out of raging heat and searing pains. The broken iron pressed profoundly into this existence, leaving an unmistakable commitment to knowing truth. The real and revealing truth I never wanted to see, it's now all I see. I'm glad, now, and regrets are few and not in between.
The tears only come now from joy and heartfelt relief. That I've made it out, made it out in all the pieces. Melded and made stronger with golden bandages and heavily profound months and months and grueling years, really. We run and run and distract from this true reality. Because it hurts and it pains and rips us through. But that will happen anyway and the smiles you discover within the suffering are wide enough to bridge the biggest gaps and burned out holes.
You're strong and brave, they say. Now I know it to be unmistakably true. Those battles I threw myself strongly in to, the wounds I apologized for I've learned to embrace. To shed the layers of misleading representations.
Strong and brave, yes she is. Look at her hair, blowing on through. Running into the waves and channeling the flame, feeling it burn up and down, tip to tip and toe to toe. Walking and squawking and laughing a bit, too. So much strength in getting to know weakness. A warrior, a hero, a spirited goddess of glorious fortitude. Can't you see it now? If only you could. I'm here on my own, like I said. Taking baths, and eating veggie stews, and singing tunes. Writing to myself in this very time and space. You're a vision, my dear. Can't you see it? Look at you now.