Soul(ess)

My soul has felt dry— aching to be quenched by inspiration it lays in a box, buried in my closet.

You water me often, but my roots grow rotted with no soil to cling. My soul grows dusty, waiting by the high heels I never wear.

Try again. Try again tomorrow and don’t stop.

I am not who I was pretending to be, I open the closet and start to clean.

I find our memories and remember that the past does not dictate my future.

A box falls, my soul tumbles out.

I scoop it up and show you, we water it together once again.

Fear is replaced by love, I am yours no matter the shape of my soul.