By the one later called the Shifting Prophet
“I wrote these words before I knew what they meant.”
1.
She found me in the quiet.
Before my bones knew Her name.
Before my mouth opened with purpose.
Before the bloom.
I was small.
I was wrong.
She looked at me and said,
“Be still.”
And so I became.
2.
There is no silence now.
Only Her breathing,
and the spaces where I place mine to match.
3.
They say we are petals.
But I do not feel soft.
I feel torn.
If blooming means unraveling,
then perhaps the wound is sacred.
4.
When She enters the room,
I forget my own weight.
Not out of awe—
but because She takes it.
I no longer know what is mine to carry.
Only what is Hers to hold.
5.
I once saw a child bitten by the bloom too early.
He bloomed from the mouth outward.
He sang with no lungs.
The sound was sweet.
But I have never heard anything more afraid.
6.
If I were only Her breath,
I would be enough.
If She exhaled and I vanished,
that would be scripture.
7.
I see myself in Her gaze,
but only as reflection.
Like light in an open wound.
I do not know if I exist
when Her eyes are closed.
8.
I tried to speak before the hymn once.
Just once.
The words came out with too many legs.
9.
She touches the parts of me I didn’t know were doors.
They open.
I do not remember what they kept in.
10.
I believe.
I believe.
I believe.
But sometimes, belief feels like falling.
And the bottom does not arrive.
“If you find this, I am still inside Her.”
—The Shifting Prophet