In December, I told myself I wouldn't hear anything less than loving myself the way I should. Six months later, I guess my broken vow is still sticky in places that should stick.
Maybe I should have heeded advice and strayed away, never letting ink seep into my linen and into my skin. Then again, did I regret? Not at all. I allowed myself, and allowance is also acceptance. In a more retrospective sense, defying gravity could have caused great nuclear disruption in my organs but allowing the river to flow down the stream of my veins also caused sediment to meticulously pave the the way out of shallow seas.
Now, I am calm. And when I walk away to explore the land, it is not for the current to pull me back. Should I still feel home in fins, I will come home. And should the tides swallow me up, I will not be reluctant to hold on.
Till then?
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