tear out the heaps of replica spiritual plastic
cluttering the cathedral of my Being.
Wash away these masks gone stale and drench me in the rain of the real.
My soul is nauseous from binging on the fancy drinks offered on every street corner,
in my denial of what I am made of, I have been turning my back on
the nectar of you gushing through my veins.
In my fear of you I have kept my breath shallow; I have kept my ecstasies under control,
my intimacies safe. I’ve tried the route of fixing myself, or spiritualizing myself,
of trying to build up a more “goddessy”, “juicy” “shaktified” version
of this little soap opera I have taken myself to be.
Undress me Ma, how exhausted I am trying to make these hand-me-down clothes fit.
Make a glorious bonfire of it all,
and let me walk naked, like you, into the risk of being.