You can fart.
You can laugh.
You can cry.
You can be pillowy fat or rail thin.
You can be all shapes and sizes.
Have tumors and lumps and moles and hair.
Scars.
You can be Hollywood beautiful.
Striking.
Studly.
A knockout.
Not a blemish in sight save for the dark smear of makeup you leave behind on the face cradle cover.
You can be perfectly average.
Plain.
Even ugly.
You can be lazy.
Eat McDonalds every day.
You can be a neurotic exercise fiend and smoothie-swilling freak.
Or just kinda healthy when you think about it and we'll chuckle and say it's better than nothing.
You can tell all the bad jokes.
I will laugh at them.
You can go on for the whole hour about your family reunion and the life stories of all your great aunts and uncles in Ohio and I will care for that hour if only to help you feel more comfortable while you lay on the table with only a blanket creating the border between me and your pain and your most naked truth.
You can complain about your loud kids.
Your rude neighbors.
Or you can say nothing at all.
I will hold the space.
You are safe here.
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
Give it a try. And, randomly, happy Nina Simone's birthday.
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Omf christ shitpants motherfucker balls some days holding space is so hard and I really want to complain about it but tonight I can't find the words. I take it home with me, sometimes. The habit. I confuse the boundaries of unprofessional relationships and find myself sucked into the therapeutic role when all I want to do is cut loose and have fun and not talk you up out of your self-dug hole of deprecation. God damn it all I don't know where the line is for that boundary but I do know it's getting crossed. It's up to me to set it. The work is never done. Fuck. Some days I want to be a fucking bitch and make no apologies for it.
