My Cousin. Myself.

I’ve watched you struggle my whole life
now understanding how much strength it takes to stand.
Brilliance with its price is how we are described.
We are the thinkers,
We are artists.
Those who feel too much.
Who feel broken,
Who feel the weight of a scarlet letter branded on our chest
In our hearts.
Who feel the darkness breathing down our neck.
How much strength it takes to just stand up
To take that breath.
To move that brush.
There are days when the sky is painted with music just for our ears.
When beauty can be found in every object, every person, every molecule.
With the question always of
“Am I really happy? Or am I manic?”
Always questioning.
Rarely knowing for sure.
What is real, and what is real in our heads.
My Cousin.

My cousin who helped shape the path I have led.
My cousin who dances to that drummer that no one else hears.
The artist. (Everything is better yarn bombed)
The Mother. (We’ve all been your babies at one point or another)
The Realist. (If its smaller than a cat it goes in the trash can.)

Desciple.

Wife.

Niece.

Cousin.

My Cousin.

Myself.