lest I forget

None of this is real.
I’ve felt transcendence for a while now, and lately, I fear regression.
In and out of old places, old patterns, old skins.
Suddenly, it’s all so familiar —
yet we speak a language I no longer understand on a soul level.
And in places I know all too well,
I am completely lost.

The “yes, but”s fall from mouths like breath —
so often, so freely —
as if they aren’t the words of the walking dead.

So this is a note to my self —
a small but sacred reminder
lest I forget my magic
in moments of spiritual exile —
how I built myself out of a thousand quiet miracles,
how I became the answer to a thousand ancestral prayers,
how my skin holds within it the entire universe.