cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I am from my own imagination From ground scorched with misdirected rage I am from forced silence From underwater screams stuck burning my throat I am from her dark hallow From a lifetime of aching belly I am from both body and mind filled with too many scoops of Mama I am from familial pain…
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In Her Image I am a dissident daughter No one taught me, God is my Great Mother War alive in my mind Starvation in my desecrated heart
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“I am not chewed up, spat out bubblegum” I am not fine china chipped by his touch now sitting on the thrift store shelf. I am not a porcelain tea cup filled with saliva from mouths of boys for whom I willingly opened my legs. I am not plucked petals of a rose trampled by…
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I keep returning to the girl in the grave. Gray and without breath. With armor to protect her heart and masks to wear for any occasion. She knows the intrinsic ways of each role she is expected to play. I resurrect her when I fear love. She knows how to get through this life.
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You call her a dirty slut You whisper “cheap whore” as she walks by Words echo in the long hallway of a high school Words echo in the tender spirit of a 16 year old girl
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My name is Holly, I am an addict. It does not really matter what my addiction is. What matters is my addiction was what I chose to fill the God shaped hole in my life. My addiction kidnapped my heart, my soul and my mind. But God. God ransomed me. I used my addiction to…
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*This post is from a sexual abuse survivor, it may be triggering for some readers. Before my first-ever game of hopscotch, I was sacrificed at the altar of your desires. Baptized in pain then drowned in the depths of your hands. You thought you had crushed me, you believed with an evil glee that you…
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