Vulnerability is mine and mine alone.
It taunts my confidence.
Tears at my peace.
It’s a grenade of dissatisfaction.
Aimed at the landscape of my soul.
I know of its deep-seated root.
I give it it’s warranted respect.
Like the pain that I want to ease.
I am certain I will find the strength.
To bury it in its appropriate resting place.
Bless it.
Cover it with Mother Earth.
Water it with the heaven’s rain.
As it transforms it into the beauty that is—
Love of Self.
Tricia Schwaba—11/19 Poetry, From the Archives