Girls Are Not For Beating

First spoken word piece in a while..

Thank you to Dena at Phoenix Ascended for working with me on this..

Girls Are Not For Beating ♡

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Faye K. Brown Reviews Rachel Finch’s A Sparrow Stirs its Wings

Thank you Faye 😘💜💕

Sudden Denouement Publishing

“Pieces of me lie scattered in his fingerprints, his voice an echo at the base of my throat and as he nears me, I cross my heart and hope to die.” (He Will Carry Me, As Long A I Will Carry Him)

Amidst the hardships flowing through her veins, Rachel Finch has found salvation from sexual abuse and trauma through her poetry. This piece is just one of the many heart- wrenching, soul-shattering poems in her debut poetry book “A Sparrow Stirs Its Wings”.  Rachel invites her readers to over 120 pieces of her heart & soul, and I can guarantee you will need a box of tissues by your side for this book.

Split into two sections (Part One: Broken Egg Shells/ Part Two: Flight); readers can clearly identify the mood on the pages. Described within her poetic words are hellish moments worded so beautifully that you can’t help…

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I Knew My Purpose-Rachel Finch

I loved being a part of this profound collection.. 💕

Whisper and the Roar

open_bird_wing_by_dawnallynnstock-dawnallynnstock-deviantart-com.jpg
I knew my purpose
when little legs were
thrust apart,
foreign hands moulding my body
into a better fit for themselves,
shaping my form and my future.
I knew my purpose when they
took their turns and the skin on
my face didn’t burn beneath the salt,
but soaked it into every pore with a
remembering.
I knew my purpose when the
bruises painted my inner thighs
and even my silent lips couldn’t
hide the gospel.
I knew my purpose when the tears fell and
only the birds were listening.
Shades of hurt patterned my flesh and I was
already living in the knowing.
I would grow wings and beat them to the
sound of every whimper of a sister
and I would turn the betrayal into a war cry
for peace and justice

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I Was Unforgiving

I was unforgiving when the first hands to love me, pleased themselves,

I was unforgiving when the first friend to show me the self,

loved with her hips and not her pulse.

But am I forgiving when her own blood stands before me

and I morph the memory into something beautiful,

for the sake of the baby that came from her womb

and with his innocent eyes looking into mine,

I silence them.

I was unforgiving when I lay there and let her

merge the trauma carried in her muscles, into mine

and told my sister to turn away so the memory didn’t stain her eyelids,

so she didn’t feel it.

What was I when I let her lips press down on mine,

still carrying the flavour of her father and I swallowed both their shame?

How my body wanted to deny her,

but my hands ground down her hips and I needed her to know;

I knew him too.

I am forgiving when I look back at our prayers,

amid the tears,

that were our words and

I still taste her wounds.

Rachel Finch

The Drunk Don’t Watch The Clock

Happy hour lasted a little

less than the hour promised,

and I’d count the last seven

minutes down myself,

trying to hold my breath for

the duration, reluctant to

inhale the scent of beer and

vomit creeping up my neck.

I could have sworn I tasted his

breath through my collar bone.

When seven minutes pass and

my hips are still rocking, I

count them down again.

‘A Sparrow Stirs it’s Wings’

Rachel Finch

The Flush In Her Cheeks

She’s still a baby at five,

still a baby at eight,

hair touching the

base of her spine,

marking her years and the shade

to shelter the pain.

She’s hiding behind her hair and

no one asks why.

No one questions why little girls

feel uncomfortable in skirts,

bare thighs silent,

bones screaming to be freed.

She was nine when she first

straddled my hips,

only thin knickers between us

and I heaved.

I focused on the freckles hiding

the flush in her cheeks and we

loved one another through the

palms of our hands,

lying in our confusion with just

the wind to quench our thirst.

Rachel Finch 2018

Autism Awareness – Birthed In My Prayer

Heavy brown eyes look up at me.
Little boy, full of rage, full of mercy, full of the wisdom of the ancients.

He’s been zoned for 45minutes. I am breathless, he can’t remember.

My heart is hammering in my chest, a lump the size of his heart in my throat, blocking the only way my words could reach his ears and I am rendered mute.

I close my eyes, willing them to hide the screams in every tear, forcing myself to inhale a breath I need to last me a lifetime and I pause.

I find no solace behind my eyelids, just flashes of moments ago, his fists flying, mine flailing, trying to speak a language they don’t know yet and I am deafened by his screams and my silence.

I’m breathing slowly now, allowing myself the calm we both need and in my minds eye I am nineteen again, cradling a hollow womb robbed of those before him, facing the stars on my knees and bargaining with the heaven I remember.

The constellations show me and I say, “I know who he will be, send him anyway, send him please.
In my exhale, I am reminded of this prayer.

Heavy brown eyes gaze up at me, lock my own stare and behind his pupils, I hear his pleading and the only voice I own, mirrors the music of angels in my ears and I am singing Love into his vision.

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.

Rachel Finch 2018