for the tarnished hearts

𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈

how are youuuuu- be honest <3

and i was just craving cinnamon banana bread yesterday and then i was thinking about recipes and how i need therapy and now here we are LMAO

---

is there a recipe

for healing?

how do you heal

storms beneath skin,

lightning striking at my bones

that splinter and break and cry

without anyone noticing,

tearing me down

from the inside,

because this, this is

anxiety that has worked itself

into dark clouds of chaos

and the acid rain

just pours

like liquid fire from hell,

burns

through the tin roof

i've thrown

over my brain.

please,

this isn't just all in my head—

no, it is, but it hurts.

and, darling, tell me—

how do you heal

the heartstrings i have cut in halves

with the words i wield like weapons

against myself.

i press shaking fingers

against my chest

but my heart has lost its voice,

and without it

it is just an organ

pumping blood,

mindless.

is there a recipe

for healing?

give me precise measurements

and an ingredient list

and a promise of sugar and sweetness

after all the labor.

let me bake myself

in the oven

and hope i finally come out ready

for this world,

because when i came out

of my mother's womb,

crying and flailing—

i was not ready,

only wanting to stay

curled into myself,

eyes shut and unseeing,

buried in muffled quiet

as if i'm beneath

several feet of sea water

and if i look up,

there would be the sun—

protectress and radiance and molten light

the same muted gold as fireflies

and just as miraculous.

when i step out the front door every day,

inhale all the pain and heartache of humanity,

exhale all of my own,

and watch the smoke of this despair

stretch and expand across the sky—

i am still not ready.

tell me

there is a recipe

for healing,

for my heart is still as fragile and sacred and scared

as my first breath.

love,

mari