My child
is not
the “best thing
I have ever done”
she
is
not
finished
nor am I
and to declare that as fact
is a sappy fairytale
an empty delusion
at best
And
a reduction of me
and my highest possible form
of usefulness
to
sex object
uterus
vagina
at worst
I will not do that
To either of us
-a.r.
Painting: Motherhood by Veronica Jackson.
I am tired
Like the frightened finch
Who nervously leapt
From his springtime nesting
With wings wildly flapping
Losing feathers
Flitting furiously he stayed aloft
In exhausted purgatory, terrified
His little heart racing
His dangling feet flailing, frantic
Only inches from his resting spot
With bits of twine and twig
Still stuffed deep and spilling
From his tiny beak, muted
Unable to sing or scream or speak
He could not complete his work
Or even warn the others
His only option was to hover
Madly in midair
Watching, biding, wasting time
Until he could decide
Whether it was better to abandon
His half-built home
Or, tired, fight his fear
And light
-a.r.
Image found on Pinterest, artist unknown
To be honest
To be human
To be exposed
To be terrified
To gut myself
To destroy myself
To heal myself
To fuck you
To obliterate you
To understand you
To find silence
To find belief
To find the answer
To spew my venom
To spew my violation
To spew my questions
To show myself
To show you
To show them all
To be brutal
To be loved
To be allowed
To remember
To imagine it
To forget
To create connection
To create perfection
To create a monster
To disturb you
To soothe you
To encourage you
To illustrate
To plainly state
To rail against
To exist
To matter
To leave behind
To be brave
To be fortified
To be immortal
To be a lie
-a.r.
Painting: Transformation by Maciej Wierzbicki
And so I sit
At the edge of seasons
With my ghostly legs dangling
Over the last lip of winter
Can I let myself slip
Loosen my grip
On these moss-covered teeth
Above and below me
While it yawns at my back
This mouth black melancholic
That once carried me ’round
Inside color drained out
Frightened but familiar
Strange safety was found
I could crawl back inside
This giant gray gaping wide
But it stinks of stale breath
And there is a breeze, fresh
Flora blooming below
I have never been one
To let myself fall, to spring
So freely towards hope
I only know how
To gulp and let go
-a.r.
Painting: The Precipice, by Lea Kelley
No more attempts
At fixing me
Will be allowed
Long live the mad
And drooling demons
I have yet fleshed out
-a.r.
Painting: The Exorcism by Kevin Kinkead
This morning I woke
Cradled under layers of
Antiseptic snow
I wish that I had stayed
Pure and packed in ice today
Melting hurts too much
Best to light me up
Cleansing fast by fire instead
The ashes for my bed
-a.r.
I thought I’d found a red balloon
‘Twas but a berry in the snow
From far away it freely floated
But closer up, a winter bud let go
-a.r.
Photo taken by me.
I cry from the sting
Of onions sliced or perhaps
My pride too pungent
-a.r.
Painting: Peeling Onions, by Lilly Martin Spencer
Joni urged me straight out of town
All signs for staying swung upside down
A flag tugged madly in the wind to be free
Its seam caught quick on the branch of a tree
Geese huddled ’round on a field of dead corn
From the frozen ground pulling quite alive worms
Snowfall followed but I fled too fast
Its blanket unfurled while I unpacked
A warm fire popped and brunch dishes clanked
And Nietzsche’s declared what he feared, a saint
-a.r.
I will rush away
To the river
Where slices of ice
Like razored islands
Slink slowly by.
I will rush away
To where the water
Sings and stings
And slings its shards
Against shore and stone.
I will rush away
To be churning alone
Towards tomorrow
Turning this frozen time
Into a melting spring.
-a.r.
Photograph of the frozen Delaware river, by Josh Friedman
Reposted due to a formatting glitch in wordpress. This is how it was supposed to look.
sometimesihatemycat 