It Was Tragic..

It was tragic,
the way we clung
to dreams and longings,
the way they smothered
the trauma with labels
and tried to squeeze
our psyche into straightjackets
too small to bound the inner.
It was tragic,
the way we retreated to our
subconscious and made homes
of the fortresses that
housed the ancient but
not forgotten.
It was tragic,
the way we sparked up,
chewed valium to
numb the yesterdays and
mauled at any euphoria
we could claim ours
to soothe the wounds.

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She Is Not For The Taking

And when I birthed a daughter,

a bonfire singed my womb and

my femininity screamed,

“She is not for the taking”.

Chanting My Name

The prayer is alive when the sound of it is

in sync with the pounding of my heart.

The drumming of my pulse, a background beat

to the screams locked in my gut and the

mother tongue in me is born in the memory of

the women that cried before me and clamped their teeth down

on the pillow so their babies didn’t hear.

The prayer is alive when I rise from my body and float above it,

looking down, watching his hand grab fistfulls of the back of my head and know

I buried my face from even me up here,

suffocated in the corner of the ceiling, but the angels are singing.

The prayer is alive when Light fills the room and drags me

from the stain between my legs and lifts me to the sky

so the singing of the stars can drown out his grunting.

The prayer is alive when I slam back into my body and the

presence of angels still ripples through me,

when my body is numb but I’m still somewhere inside it,

listening to the sound of the cosmos chanting my name.

He Was A Six Foot, Six Year Old

He was a six foot, six year old,
his skin, heart, cold as the armour he still wore.
Deep voice booming, heavy gaze looming,
clawing for a control he never felt before.
I watched him suck the life from her lungs
and fill his own with a power born from her fear
and he sickened me.
I traced the cut on her skin with a shaky hand
and she flinched.
And she flinched.
She pulled away from soft hands, she knew
and I watched him smirk.
I tasted the vomit in my mouth all the way from
my stomach and gagged on the flavour of the blood
seeping from my heart up to my tongue.
I poured honey on her wounds, thick to hide the
shame and I swallowed blame, his and my own for the
days I watched him shrink her and said nothing.
He was a six foot, six year old,
internal bruising lining the under layer of his body
and he kicked her in the playground that their boys
played tag in and I chased them so he didn’t have to.
I chased them so when they looked back they’d remember
my smile running after them and their mother’s
face toward the sky, her back to him,
her back to his knife, back to his wounds that
were still living.
He was a six foot, six year old,
and we mothered him.
We offered love to an orphan that had never felt warmth
but he did not thaw.
Now I fan the fire to keep the heat and intertwine it in
their nervous system so they never feel the cold they were born into.
So she never remembers the frost.

Rachel Finch 2018

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. 

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