The Yellow Door

I love myself.
It’s hard to believe that was once so hard to say.
It didn’t feel like a truth then. Just an affirmation.
Something light, weightless, floating.
An outline of a possibility.
Now, it’s as true as my own hand before my face.
It holds both water and weight.
It feels like a strong, solid voice that resonates in my belly.
I love myself.
It doesn’t feel like a trick or a sin to say. It doesn’t feel like a lie or a dirty mirror.
I love myself.
And I am sincerely amazed that some collection of terrible and beautiful days has become this declaration of me that I prayed through tears for. For so long.
Isn’t it a gift that we’re never lost?
Always within reach if we just pull back the layers and find our sweet selves waiting.
My inner child loves frolicking. I don’t walk. I jump and spin and fall and laugh and get up again and pick flowers with my toes.
I’m ready for anything.
Holding more light than a year ago like the voice told me I would.
I do hear voices but they’re not the kind to worry about.
Although some take their worry and stretch it out for me like a courtesy or a hobbie, it’s not necessary.
My voices speak sweetness.
They remind me to look deeper.
They say, “what if it is true? What if it isn’t? Does your past really change you?”
And I wonder, can it? Something done? Can it change who I am to become?
No, I think my identity has crumbled a thousand times and no memory can keep me captive anymore.
I might just open the yellow door.