VIXEN.
It was an illusion he saw.
I couldn't meet the image that night, so I chose authenticity instead.
His resistances taught as a bow; vibration springing off of his body -
a suit of armor to protect his ego self's need for identity.
I could only laugh.
"You're bothered," he'd say.
"I'm not," I'd chirp.
A brief dance, he ran away the next morning -
fleeing his own defenses, his fear propelling his motion.
All I could do was to stand strong - like a reed blowing in the breeze -
to his internal battle.
He sought my medicine out and, for once in my life,
I received a full dose of his medicine straight down my gullet.
"Why?" he wanted to know.
"Dunno," I shrugged my shoulders in response.
I guess I'm just listening to the Universe.
And he perpetuates my worst fear; triggering my deepest core wounds -
rejection and judgment.
It hurts, even though I know it's not personal.
It stings, even though I know it's all his stuff -
the heavy baggage of being a late 20-something-year-old American artist & male.
His imprint now running throughout my body.
Shedding this skin is letting go of all of it - I know.
Shedding this skin is allowing for all of it, too.
