What I Want You To Tell Me

Don’t tell me about the day you couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, but sprang out five minutes later by repeating a mantra in your head.

Don’t tell me about how you plan on walking in the footsteps of your parents.

Don’t tell me about how all you do is serve, how you never have time for yourself.

Don’t tell me of your suffering.

Don’t tell me about your fucking horoscope.

Tell me your truth.

Tell me how you love watching the milk swirl into your coffee, like a storm cloud bursting in the sky.

Tell me how your stomach feels when you stare your lover in the face.

Tell me how your voice shakes when you speak your heart into the world wide open. Tell me about the memories you can’t forget. Of how when you were five, ants crawled all over your body in the grass. Of the boy who opened the door on you, and laughed. Of the man who’s hands wandered where they were not given permission to go.

Tell me of the night you kissed a handsome stranger under a green streetlight in a far away city. The night you knew your life would change.

Tell me of the time you looked over the sea of teenage faces smirking at your brilliance.

Of how you dulled your voice from that day, choosing boredom over intellect.

Tell me of how it never worked, how you never felt like you fit in.

Tell me of the time you sat naked in the bath with your best friend, hardly 18, and wondered for a moment if you kissed her, if that would be love. Tell me how your light scares you more than your darkness.

Tell me what it is you want from this life.

Tell me everything you are afraid of. Of the years it took to trust that you are taken care of.

Tell me how you crave the ocean. How lakes bore you, how your salvation is only found in salt.

Tell me of the time you laughed so hard you nearly crashed your car. And that somehow this made your belly quake for even longer.

Tell me how you don’t meditate every day. How you try your best, but that that best is met with the honest truth.

Tell me of how you feel when you stare at your naked body in the mirror.

Tell me of the day you surrendered to your imperfection, and decided to never wear makeup again.

Tell me of how you walk in this world. Who you are intimidated by. What gifts you bring. What you see in others as a reflection of you.

Tell me of how your mother’s joy was so contagious she could shake the very walls of each heart in the room.

Tell me of your first kiss. The nervous waiting. The laughter.

Tell me of how you healed your first heartbreak. Of how you stayed in bed for three weeks, refusing any food but ice cream.

Tell me of how the sun baked grass felt on your five year old feet as you ran through fields overlooking the Atlantic ocean.

Tell me of how your mother would mash raspberries with milk and call it dessert.

Tell me of how the pine smells when you go North, of the clarity you feel in the green trees, deep lake and dark earth.

Tell me of how your father broke your heart by not showing up.

Tell me of how you judge your family’s story, and make it yours.

Tell me of your greatest pain, and I will show you your greatest gift.

Tell me of what you are called to do. You, not her. Not him. You.

Tell me of your truth.

Everything else is background noise, which you have mistaken for the entire symphony.