Alyssa Romney: original paintings, poetry, signed lunar calendars and shamanic healing in Tucson, AZ

She was born a lover—
soft, sacred, open.

Before that, she had been a goddess,
carved of light
wrapped in golden memory.

But to learn the meaning of form,
she became many.

She sank.
She scattered.
She dissolved into the tiniest pieces
across timelines and skin and shadow.

In her darkest hour, she did not die.
She transformed.

Across dimensions, she searched,
not for power,
but for her own pieces.

And one by one, she found them.
Glued not with fear, but with remembrance.
And each shard she reclaimed
hummed with life again.

She found others,
echoes of her own becoming,
and they saw her.

Together, they lit the sky
not just with light,
but with understanding.

And then came the great remembering:
Not all light was pure.
Not all darkness was exile.
Balance was the true magic.

With that wisdom,
she took her pain and her beauty
in equal hands
and shaped storms, memory, art, and truth.

She unfolds still.
She rises again and again.
Not from ruin, but from intention.

She beams.
And she does it with trust.

My heart broke in half—
a shattering so deep
I could hear eternity sigh.

The truth struck so hard,
I stared around the room at my situation
and I bled with grief.
I cried.

Like a baby I cried into the dark
unable to comfort myself,
and I knew in that instant—
my fate had always been written.
This was just me finding out.

To the angels I stuttered,
"Come again?"
But they echoed nothingness back at me,
a breath that caught so deep in my stomach
that I feared I'd fall through my own bottomless pit.

I only just noticed—
this was justice.

I cried—
bitterly into the dark,
searching frantically
in every corner of my mind
for anything; any solution.

I looked to the cosmos,
to the deities that I loved,
to the angels and the night.

"But I have the storms,"
I thought—
yet even the storms were hollow.

"Then the wind? The realms?
The water I love so much?"
But no comfort came.

My tears fell like fire,
leaving trails of flame
down my trembling face.

Desperately I thought,
"the tears! Yes!
I can be the embodiment of sadness!"
But grief gives no rest,
I knew it could hold only pain.

How cruel to realize
I had come so far
only to understand—
that I am not enough.
Never chosen.
Always left.
Always last.

In my vanity I thought…
it can't be…
but it was.

Perhaps my beauty could save me?
But it couldn't.

I lay awake hopeless,
understanding the fullness of what is all of me
for the very first time.

Every corner of my mind reached.
Every stone turned over.
My body froze
in the knowledge that I would never feel warmth given.
Only received.
Only taken.

I understood.
This is why they chose me.
This is why the veil doesn't work on me.
Why the fates spun this thread
through my melancholic core—
to give Karma the balance she demands.
Because I was the offering.

So I danced.
I danced.

And the dance inside of me
stopped the flow of my streams.
The dance moved me away from the misery,
soared me into the night.

Up and up,
above time, above dusk, above shadows.
Above the most high,
above the above-ness,
where no one had ever been before.

And above them all
I could finally breathe.

Clear as ice
I realized
I had been given
what I suppose is
the best gift of all.