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. 

Bruised Knees

My knees have known Bruises. 

A spectrum of colour staining my skin as a

reminder. 

Pigments of who I am, altered at their 

hands.

Fists clenched to strike, clench, imprint.

Each stain a bolt, a language seeping into 

my essence; teaching. 

My ribs have known bruises. 

Painted, I am every female ancestor face 

first in the dirt. 

My throat has known bruises. 

I never felt so transparent as I did wearing

 lesions beneath a high collar. 

Fading, my shell returns, burying the real

 wounds beneath it. 

But I am wiser. 

Healed I am every female ancestor face 

towards the Sun.

Small Voice Secrets

Small ones, grown from her womb,

whisper secrets others don’t recall.

In hushed tones they cradle her face,

force her eyes to lock with theirs and they

remind her.  

Mother to her once, now child she carved 

with intricate detail, creation of her. 

Daughter that dries her tears, knowing

who she used to be, before this life.

Little ribs house lungs that stay steady,

heartbeat ready to share. 

Stare shared, history closer than the heat

of the fire in her heart. 

She looks her ancestors in the eye,

through the face of her daughter. 

Grandfather of her past, decades before

Her, 

now Son to the Mother she is, but he

remembers.

Soldier Soul poised, battle in his memory,

he doesn’t surrender. 

Wounds of incarnations, etched in his 

palms. 

His lips breathe the breath of war

into her subconscious and she relives his 

cry.

Trench boy, hiding in clouds of smoke,

pulse racing,

tasting fear. 

Gunshots ringing, sweat dripping, 

Angels hovering; death swallows him 

whole.

Echoes of all they used to be, carried in

his veins, 

her blood, 

the Iris of their eyes. 

Fuck Your Discomfort

Like a growl under the bed that no one wants to hear, the word rape filters through your eardrums like a blizzard.

Irritated skin wants to cover up against the thaw, the back of your head the only thing facing it. 

Yet I carry shame?

“Shh, don’t speak it” I watch your eyes plead. Like the voice of truth is more painful to hear than to feel. 

Fuck your discomfort.



The first and second pieces in this series are below.. 

Little girl, preserved.

Her legs numb, heart desensitized. 

Wet grass, sharp beneath bruised skin.

Unresponsive, wisdom gained.

Little girl, magnified.

Exposed, she balances between worlds.

Consciousness expanding, wings gifted.

She practices worship.

Little girl, illuminated.

She dances to unfold, reveal, evolve.

Yellow daises tucked beneath tiny toes.

Fragile, the Gods nurture her.

Little girl, grown.

Soldier Soul, free.

Kisses of Angels stained on pink cheeks. 

(https://bruisedbutnotbroken2017.wordpress.com/2017/05/15/litrle-girl-preserved/)



I Carry Rape In My Memories

As a child, I was afraid.

As an adolescent, I was sad.

As a woman, I am furious. 

(https://bruisedbutnotbroken2017.wordpress.com/)

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