“The hunger is something you dig a hole in yourself to bury.” Kazim Ali
All of this was ripped. Part of something else.
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.
Aimee Herman 