“The hunger is something you dig a hole in yourself to bury.” Kazim Ali
There are words, which used to be part of other things and now reside as this.
There is a pelvic blueprint, reminding me that even an x-ray can lie.
There is a swarm of vegetables shaped into a heart, symbolizing healthy love.
There is a body that can not be called male or female, rather satisfied and comfortable.
There is earth.
There is an Italian cookie. A newspaper. Modern Love.
There are trees and water. There is sun. There is a city bridge. There is a fortune. There is hope.
This is my vision board. This blue square of paper is a guide of desires, goals, dreams.
When I think about what I hope to manifest, I feel overwhelm. For so many years, I have buried my hungers so deep behind bones, caging them in.
Who/what am I waiting for.
I cannot stop with just this paper. It is a visual, but the rest must come from me.
I hold my left palm in such a way that it sinks, fingers lift up as though being pulled by invisible string. My palm is a cup I can sip out of. It is a bowl I can eat from. I can subsist on whatever fits inside my flesh. Parts of my skin, dry, pulls. There is a web of creases.
I am growing stronger on the outside, but if I were to photograph my innards, what musculature would gather?
My vision blurs, shifts, squints, takes in.
What do others notice that I do not; what do I notice that others can’t.
I want to see myself in this paper. Hybrid body. Floatation device. Loved. Traveler. A climb toward.
Do we ever reach that moment where reflection matches what we want or think we see.
Tell me how to get there.