I am still not accustomed
to being wanted for my company,
so used to hosting men
in my bed and this body,
the universe expanding
as somehow my space becomes erased.
To be asked what brings me pleasure
should be so everyday.
I may not be convinced of my beauty yet
but I can believe that I am safe,
even as my deepening breath
begs for armour
or out of habit, sleep hesitates,
both waiting up for the decision my heart makes
to trust the hands that hold me.
Sometimes the noise inside our minds
seems so loud
we don’t notice life
knocking on our locked door,
desperate to find us.
May I open all the windows,
drill holes in the brick walls,
take the roof off.
Let the universe shape its love into a whirlwind
and I’ll bless the way it messes up my hair.
lay down the weight which you carry,
nobody is owed the heaviness of your soul
and there are other ways to find justice
without holding on to the hard places.
this burden of proof doesn’t belong
to the heart that knows the truth,
whose body shattered into pieces
reflecting someone else’s shame.
name what hurts and let it be,
these wounds may be deep
but do not silence their screaming,
they were never the enemy.
who said you have to do this alone,
healing comes collectively, like a universal truth
and love, it’s time to come home.
You’ve been gone long enough.
The glare of the afternoon sun
caught sight of your hands
as they grazed my skin,
lightly committed lines leaving traces
like sand grains, sprinkled thinly into glistening patterns
where our dry backs meet the ocean
and gave in to melting.
What I mean to say
is that I cherish these soft days
where souls are christened with sea salt
and float atop peace waves,
where healing is a boat
that casts out its anchor
on the beach shores of our suffering,
nets spread tenderly with intentions
to carry the load off my mind.
I would like to rely a little more on myself
and not see hope as a chore,
like eating healthy or being kind to my anxiety,
something other than just coping
when lack of sleep slides into the bed beside me
and swears he’s the only intimacy I’m worth.
Can I place a hand over where it hurts,
yours or mine, or both together,
allow scars to touch bare skin
without lying about their origin,
my longings and wishful thinkings,
mistakes and misplaced trust.
Of the things I find hard to accept,
the most difficult is knowing
how the next steps require
I must let go of them all.
I woke up this morning and sensed the air
mingle with the spaces between my fingers,
the weight of your absence
like a twenty pound blanket I sometimes carry
as extra skin
when I long to feel less fragile
and more oxytocin, more real
and less repellent.
I round up my knees
to cradle the present,
give it the human touch it needs
in moments of discomfort so quiet
that I hear the birds outside my window
breathe in faintest echos
like the words my lips speak silently
across an empty pillow.
Today is for the realigning of bare bones,
every crack blessed with drops of holy water
for how else would I honour
the body of a Goddess.
Trace my fingertips over this skin
with the tenderness of a lover
whose touch was gone too long
but right on time to hold these hands as they sleep,
only letting go to wipe tears from her cheek.
Then, wake her up gently,
magic cast in the whispers of morning breath,
planting kisses on the back of her neck
where pulse meets electricity
and calls it healing energy,
calls it what I need,
when I stopped waiting for a reminder
of my trauma
to leak love back into capillaries
and find a daily practice
to map its journey through my blood stream.
We answer our own prayers.