i’m still burning,
muscles scolding skin
from the inside out,
heart in flames.
I am still small.
I am still ablaze.
I wrote a poem called In Blues and Golds that was published on Sudden Denouement a few days ago and one of my dear friends, Rachel of Bruised But Not Broken, read the piece and was inspired enough to write a piece around a couple of the sections of my original poem. Upon reading Rachel’s […]
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
Who I really am, living in my
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.
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.
I take rejection like a winner, spit the blood
from my mouth when you’ve finished
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..
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 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.
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.