I have two little circles on the top of my thighs.
It took me awhile to understand why they were there, like sombre dots in a Seurat painting.
Until I put my fingers to fill their place.
And I realised that I have been holding my body so tightly that this is what it creates.
Bruises. Two dark plum bruises.
Of fear. Of desperation. Of clinging to my own body so much as a resource of faith.
And I am barely holding on.
I am so tired.
And yet we do not have that luxury to lay down our heads. Not in the least.
I wonder of my elders, is this the exhaustion of vigilance when we are at war?
And what will it be if we fail?
That question is bitter, overripe on my tongue.
My fear is a pickpocket.
In our ignorance of what we actually can do or not, lies the vaccine that we need.
We are so used to everything being easy. This is not easy.
Can we look for the answers?
Can we be our own silent revolution before a violent one strikes?
I rub the taught muscles between my eyes and wonder.
My God, can that tiny sliver of a moon deliver us to where we need to go?
