I Will Overcome The Abuse

I have words to speak, but my tongue is

still numb from the flavour of your lies. 

I have a truth to tell, but i’m not sure 

whether to swallow it. 

Keep it buried where it’s 

always belonged. 

Who I really am, living in my

stomach, 

making a home behind my ribcage,

stifling my wings. 

I have a decade of stories, bursting behind

swollen lips and flustered cheeks, shame 

carried in my face.

I want to find my voice, but I think it got

buried beneath yours in my throat and I

can’t remember what I sound like. 

The Addicts Don’t Disgust Me; Humanity Does

Even the heathens used to suck on their mamas titty.. 

There was a time the addicts cried for milk and that was enough..

Those babies grew with Love in their hearts and still the world beat them down.. 

People, beat them down.

I’ve watched everyone i’ve ever loved reach out for comfort. I’ve watched them all reach for a damn fix too. 

But I don’t get mad.

You know why I don’t get mad? 

Because the baby crying for a bottle still hides inside.

Because those babies grew into children, suffered at the hands of men claiming to be human and they’ve been gagging on trauma ever since.

But no one’s there to pat their backs.. Couldn’t soothe the colic, can’t help heave the vomit. 

There is no support system.

Just little girls hiding behind big tits and long eyelashes, painting smiles onto their faces, as if foundation hides the streak of tears, we know it doesn’t.

Little boys, bruised, looking up at men that fathered them and then taught them everything love isn’t, through their fists. 

Rape, carried behind their eyelids, beatings still living beneath their skin.

There was no fucking hero. 

Just small people, reaching for a bottle, reaching for a titty that’s dried up, a fucking hand to hold that can’t be found because jesus, to touch them would be to risk the plague.

And you walk by.

I have watched these people crumble. I have watched them stomach grief, living with a bad taste on their tongue, struggling to spit the pain from their lungs and I watched them fight.

The shame in their chests, the weight on their shoulders, their broken hearts barely beating. 

They were anything but weak.

And you think you’re better than them, because you carry your pain in your pockets and you can handle the heavy that weighed them down. 

You did not live their path. 

I guess I do get mad, when their bodies convulse, when they throw up as much as they choked down, when they laugh admist the agony of overdose.. 

But not with them.

With those of you that think you’re a fucking gift to the planet, but can’t be a gift to a brother. 

The addicts don’t disgust me.

Humanity does. 

Girls Aren’t For Beating

I take rejection like a winner, spit the blood

from my mouth when you’ve finished 

pounding childhood

trauma into my lungs, smile through the bruises,

keep your secrets in my throat, along with your name.

I won’t speak you into existence. 

My body tapped out but my Spirit’s in the ring, I won’t go down.

Fists don’t need words to speak, shades of you staining my cheekbone, a child’s signature. 

Numb, I am transparent. 

Still, you never knew when to stop. I used to watch the bubbles of anger form on your lips and think maybe if he kissed me this wouldn’t hurt. 

I was underdeveloped, rage, half your size and yet it was you who hurt.

Tears falling from your eyes, a little voice in my chest screaming I know and I couldn’t silence her. 

I swallowed your shame and stomached it better than you could. I want to spit you out but you’ve flavoured my tongue and there are traces of you in the back of my eyelids.

You thought women were weak, but the same hands you bound, ground herbs, whispered sacred words and wiped the salt that you couldn’t carry from your face. 

Little boy, calm your rage. Girls are not for beating. Grow into the skin you hide behind, watch how the women do it without heaving. 

I take rejection like a winner, climbing on the steps I stumbled on. Kicking them to pieces behind me. You can’t reach me up here, floating with the fireflies. 

Bite your tongue, learn release, I might reach down my hand.. 

It’s, For My Breath Of Fresh Air

They thought I would be bitter. They thought I was foolish to keep him close, to let her in.

I heard their voices, but my soul spoke louder and I chose to listen to that instead.

There isn’t a word to describe the relationship the first wife shares with the second. I know because i’ve spent a long time trying to define it.

When you’re a mother, a woman of substance, you put the children first. So I did. She reflected that need in an instant. 

It’s, i’m going to stand by this man even though our vows were broken. It’s, I see you as a part of him we waited for.

It’s more than friend, it’s not quite sister, it’s, I see you and your truth and i’m not here to crumble. 

It’s, I knew him, but you know him. It’s, you are a limb I didn’t know he needed, I, needed.

It’s, I see the beauty in your struggle, and i’m not wavering. 

It’s, I see the Love in your hearts and it brings me Peace.

It’s, our children need guidance; guide me. 

It’s, I don’t know your past but i’m building the future with you.

It’s, let’s bare children and raise them as blood brothers. 

It’s, here’s my heart, it’s all for you. 

It’s, witnessing a rainbow in the form of flesh and bone and a smile you never knew you missed.

It’s, this woman is my Breath of Fresh Air. 

Spirit Speaks

Spirit speaks and she hears the 

cosmos whisper her name. 

Clothed in a blanket of stars 

she looks upward, the sky 

reminding her of her worth. 

With divine love in her veins 

and withcraft on her lips she 

reclaims her destiny and folds 

to the bend of the Universe. 

Little Fingers 

An entire fist of little fingers clasp themselves around my pinkie and I feel anything but small. 

Tiny peach face stares up at me, eyes wide with a wisdom I can’t voice, but I remember. I have known her. 

Little fingers press themselves against baby rose petal lips to quiet the deafening rage within my chest. I make no sound, but she hears the roar behind my ribcage. 

Two hands, smaller than robins, seize my cheeks and she speaks to me without sound. Blue eyes hold my gaze until all I can see is my own reflection staring back at me. She cups decades of fight in her palms. Sage glare. 

Little fingers trace my jawline, caressing Love into my skin. Oracle Soul hides behind Little Fingers and she is visible as anything but small. 

Little fingers won’t stay little but their touch leaves grown handprints on my insides. I have known her. 

The Addict Hides

I tell them I don’t drink and they look at me as if it’s some kind of abnormality.

Maybe it is. Maybe I am. 

But I can’t drink from the same fruit that raised me, that slurred me to sleep at night, that refused to wake when my racing heartbeat stood by. 

I recognised that flavour on the breath of a lover and I gave his bottle my heart instead of hers and the same cold language escaped his mouth, his shell speaking when I searched for his Soul. 

Now I’m grown and I still can’t swallow bubbles that kissed their way into my mouth a decade ago by lips that stole my breath and breathed it into another in the same moment. 

They told me you could inherit addiction. So I followed their footprints out of this place and chased the high not the low and I knew I was no better. 

I just preferred eating flowers to swallowing lies and the addict hides. 

Psychosis

Mentally, I am far below the plane of my earthly existence. It’s been years since the abuse, yet it’s fresh in my face; unlaced. 

The bold I held in me, far from view, my subconcious dragging the past into the present with nowhere to run. 

I lay still, beside a body that will not wake, alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts and the shadows. 

I had buried his face, hidden it beneath who I had become, but he’d returned, uninvited, imposing on the Me i’d fought to be.

Trees rustle beyond layers of walls, the ones I built around myself at eight years old, the ones that house my body and my fear; brick invisibility. 

It’s too early for the birds but i’m praying for their singing to fill the silence. 

Panic creeps into my pores, stifling my breath, stiffening the body that’s stayed tense. 

They tell me he’s gone, delusional, their favourite word. They don’t see him standing right beside me, hand around my throat, blade bare. 

I can’t close my eyes for relief, he hides behind my eyelids. I can’t speak my truth, his fingers locked around my vocal chords. I can’t wash him from my body, I know, i’ve tried.

I feel the breath of his ghost heat my shoulder and I am frozen. Transported back two decades, twelve year old Me, too scared to speak, trapped in time. 

Little girl still inside my head, whispering, afraid to be heard. Run.

And I am running, stumbling, fleeing every building that ever promised to keep me safe and lied, lied, lied.

Doors that hide secrets, wide open behind me. Silence dispersed in my escape. 

My pace wakes the birds, they flee their nests with me. And I am laughing. Fear clawing at every organ in my body, my legs become wings and I am soaring out of reach.  

I hear them calling, their own fear bubbling on their tongues and I can’t distinguish between the love and the pain.

So I keep racing, the past to my left, the future to my right, Me, in the middle, in the present, shooting through time, an inability to know what, who, came when.

And i’d rather lose myself to the wind and the leaves than the bricks that kept me hidden through the suffering. 

To relive him every day is my psychosis. 

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