those paper-cut words and

poetry’s pornographic pulse

both raw language as it bleeds…

 

my bones have broken

not my beliefs,

but your power

 

I’ve survived your hate

but barely escaped my own

you taught me well, sickle and plow

 

but . . . I never was good enough

now,  I’ve become a better me

for failing to follow your belief

 

of my own insignificance 

 

I stand before the harvest moon

a scythe in my palms

and core the apple

 

I’ve given birth,

as you could not.

I’ve held life I adore

 

in my womb,

as you could not,

my hands

 

my heart,

as you could not,

my breath

 

my soul,

as you could not.

 

And these tiny humans

my gifts, my blessings,

I have loved them,

 

nurtured them,

watched them grow

as you could not.

 

And so I thank you

for all your ugliness

and how it taught me

 

how not to be

how not to navigate

the waters of this life;

 

still as they sometimes are

their depth, far-reaching

but your poison was discarded

 

upon the mossy bank

along with your excuses

useless tools & the apple’s rotten core

 

Surviving Abuse, This Is What It Looks Like

© Grace Black

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A small preview of what I am working on. #amwriting

Love and Ink,
Grace