Rambling of a Tired Mind

A reality in which these words paint your skin, and they tell you what you have, but not what you are. 

Is there a place in which my I can look back and instead of picking out each instance where my behavior was erratic, I could look at it at the times I was gentle and I was kind? 

I have beauty wrapped up in ivory bones that tell the story of an ancestry I can't define by mere words. How do I explain how the sound of a Native flute makes me feel, or the pounding of Shawnee drum, how the bagpipes in their haunting melody call to something much large than myself? 

I have found simple things, small beautiful things to find comfort in. 

I don't get irrationally angry when my brother picks at his nails or makes whoops and hollerings. 

I don't burst into tears when I am overwhelmed. 

I have learned to curb my tongue, sheathing it when my anger riles up in my chest like a cobra that wants to spit its venom. 

I don't count to ten anymore to help me remain calm. 

I don't lash out with words and digits, wanting to cause people to feel the pain I have been caused. 

I have learned that to look at myself, and say that my beauty is there, it is present, and I am loved by something so much more than I can comprehend, is healing, even if only a small amount each time. 

People compare themselves to wolves or to lions, and I remain here, identifying with a hummingbird or a golden barn owl. My eyes wide with joy and curiosity, but I am lethal, for you do not hear me as my words sink in like talons. 

I believe in God, but I believe in myself, and I learned that it is easy to have faith in a thing unseen, than the body and the mind I see before me. Maybe one day, it will be easy to do both.