In me. Of me. All of me. Within and out of me. Poor in soul and mind. But my heart, my heart was heavy. It never weighed on me. But it became an obvious anchor. It grew, and grew. And I shrank, and shrank. And it broke me. Poverty. Poor in soul, mind, and love. But my body was. Well. My body was broken. Battered. Scared. Creaky. My bones ached like rust. My joints couldn’t move. And I’m not old. All of me was stricken with poverty. With disease. With pain and agony. Sleepless nights and insecurities invaded my days. They made a plate at the table. They took the big sofa in the living. The one with my ass print. The one that took years to get just right. They took over. And I was lonely in my own body. Unsure of how to live. Of how to breath without crying. And my tears. They were burdens I couldn’t carry. Repetitive water droplets can break through stone. These. They broke through me. I was broken. I was lonely. I was scared. and the only medicine was me. The only therapy was me. The only answer. Was me. It took long. Too long for some. For those who couldn’t handle the process. I found myself. And I broke myself again. I found myself. And broke myself. Again. Repetitive. In and out. Psych wards. Straps. Stray jackets. Medicine. Take this. Take that. Don’t spit. DON’T SPIT. swallow. I broke myself over and over. I was afraid to try. I was afraid to fix me. There was enough glue in the world. But when I stopped seeing myself as pieces and as a seed, I learned. I became better. Slowly, surely. I became a different me. Not a vase with cracks, with seams. Not a pot that can never be filled but when I saw me as a seed. I knew that meant time. Patience. Suffering. Perseverance. That time would heal me. Lithium? sure. Abilify? sure. “But no medicine cures what happiness cannot” (Gabriel Garcia Marquez). happiness. happiness was the cure. and I can finally smile with purpose. laugh with intrigue. I can be me and be vulnerable in my own faults. I am rich. Rich in soul and mind. Rich in love and body. This is my shift.