By Jhadina
Dancing is where you’ll find her...
through the shards of glass that once
made up her slow-beating heart.
She danced slowly to the rhythm
of her own muffled heart as
she witnessed it break, piece by piece.
As the world tried to shatter her into
a million fragments, there she was...
just simply dancing.
She noticed as the noise around her
slowly began to disappear,
as if her head was submerged underwater.
Then slowly, the world began to dissipate
until she was alone—just her and her broken shards.
She fell in love with movement.
Even the way the glass so effortlessly
cut open her dainty feet.
As the blood from within her poured out
onto the shards of her heart,
she noticed that hidden within the cracks,
tucked in the tiny spaces between the glass,
life began to bloom.
As she danced this precious dance,
she began to feel the gentle grass rise
and kiss her feet, healing her wounds
and closing her open flesh.
Flowers suddenly began to flourish—flowers
made of sweet fragrance and a radiating vibrancy.
As her hips continued to sway, the flowers would rise,
as if her movement was directly linked to the speed
at which the life around her effortlessly blossomed.
The more intentional she was with where she placed her feet
and how she chose her next step,
the flowers suddenly were dancing with her.
A co-creation of sorts.
Before she knew it, she was basking in a bed of sweet roses born from the thick blood of her very soul.
Flowers birthed from the gut-wrenching pain of heartbreak.
This once desolate garden, made of broken glass and blood, now blossomed into something ethereal—something made of pure magic.
How lucky am I to bear witness to this sacred dance between her and creation?
Every time she took a step and felt the glass open her flesh,
every time a wound was created and that blood began to seep out,
I watched as it ever so graciously fertilized the ground beneath her.
And just like that, she was dancing on fertile grounds.
How beautiful to lay in a garden born from pain—those,
I might say, happen to be the best gardens of all.
There is something poetic about allowing your own blood,
your own suffering, to fertilize the ground on which you walk.
The once empty vessel, turned whole again.
And as she lay there, awake in her sacred bed of flowers,
bearing her vulnerable heart to the sky, she finally,
for once in her life, felt what life was meant to feel like.
She finally felt peace.