Call Me Crazy

I do not consent to the narrative
That being rational
Detached
Dissociated or
Numb

Is more mature
More spiritual
More evolved
More enlightened
More accurate
More true
Than
The wild tenderness of my
Innocent heart
The shaky vulnerability
Of consenting to
The open cut of feeling
Of that place which is both
Radiant and raw

I will no longer turn away from
The hot and holy mess
That can never be cleaned
And call this progress

I admit that I am
Forest and ocean:
Disorganized Art
Made of Medicine

I do not consent
To the narrative
That I must overcome
How completely out of control
It is
To care this much
To feel this deeply
To hold the entire universe in
My belly

I will not attempt to
Colonize
Or conquer
The wild in me
I will no longer
Pathologise
The waves

I am done pretending
I am not sensitive

When the truth is
My heart is made of a million
Tiny
Insect wings

I bow to the feet
Of the sensitive one

I am here for the language
That is shaky and
Uncertain
That is slow like honey
So slow the mind
Can’t catch it

I no longer consent to the idea
That the unkempt longings
Of my soul
The unbearable heat of my
Desire
The immaculate fragility
Of my skin
Should be neatly sorted
Fixed
Sewed shut
Or understood

I no longer defer
To the language, values and
Customs
Of the conqueror

I honor
My willingness
To be touched by life

To taste the wisdom that is only
Revealed
When I admit
The impossible situation
Of just how entangled
I really am
With every
Single
Thing

I no longer turn away
From the bare naked truth
Of the fact
Of my relationship
To all these Holy Others

This is the language
That has been called
Crazy
Irrational
Wounded
Weak
Inferior
And
Immature

But now I am learning
That the wide open truth
That can hold it all
That can pulse with the passion
Beyond reason
This,
Is what I am living for

It is the language of
Soul

And I am willing
Now
To hold the flame

Call me crazy
But this feels sane

—Maya Luna