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
A small preview of what I am working on. #amwriting
Love and Ink,
Grace
Wow! Fantastic poem, Grace.
Thanks so much, Christopher, for taking the time to read!
This was kickass good. I’m glad you got out and broke the cycle. Sending love. Mosk.
Thank you kindly, friend! Best to you. :)