mistook.

and so she makes a mistake, and it hurts, it feels bad, it feels shameful. she twists herself up inside until she needs to be wrung out like a wet facecloth, hoping it can all drip away into the ground beneath her feet. the mistake is simple, laughable really; but nevertheless it hurtles itself towards her, smacks her in the face, and sits in front of her, panting.

there have been many mistakes. things broken and unswept. her mind not quite connecting to what her hands can touch. these mistakes also stay with her, but show their faces only occasionally now. when they do, they are dressed to the nines, jewels dripping off of them, shiny and crystal-slashing bright. still fancy enough to make her gasp.

she tells her students, "everyone makes mistakes. i make them all the time. they are how you learn." and she believes this to be true. but she cannot bring herself to admit the seismic attack that happens within her when she is the maker. she can weave a mistake with the best of them, but hasn't learned yet how to bid it goodbye the moment it happens, watching its smoke curl up from the damage, knowing it is about to escape into the ether. knowing it is leaving her behind.

she listens to her sages, the women who speak for her, and reads their words of acceptance. she tries to be like them. she does try. by writing these words, she is trying.

she is trying really, really hard to give herself a break. not because she deserves it, although she does, but because hanging onto her failures is getting really, really old. it reeks of yesteryear. its a cliche, just like when she shaved her head on stage and then threw glitter all over herself.

she needs to mistake herself for someone else; someone who is forgiveness personified. someone who lets her breath mix with the errors of her ways, knowing that is a blessing. a mistaken identity that turns out to be the most wonderful fuck-up anyone has ever encountered.