Category Archives: Poetry

The Aftermath

The bed feels hollow,
fragile,
the first time you sleep on it alone
afterwards.

Advertisements

Relearning how to Breathe

The act of writing
has always calmed me:
I spit out poetry like wildfire
and sometimes
it’s all I need to douse the flames.
The art of curving letters,
manipulating the alphabet
to create new worlds
has always been
my favourite bandage.

So for me, being speechless
equates with numbness,
a reality where the words in my mind
and on my tongue
don’t reach my fingertips
and never grace pages;
it is my own personal ninth circle,
where the demons
are the dark, twisted stories
trying to snake their way
into poisoning my parchment.

I can’t breathe
without the right words
to describe how the sweet mountain air tastes
when paired with the bitterness of a fresh betrayal.
And I can’t speak
because for once
I have no words
to fix this.

being silent 

Clumsiness

I fall for lies
when they are fed to me
on silver spoons from silver tongues,
even when they leave a metallic taste in my throat
that reminds me of coming rain
and storm clouds.
I fall for people
when they convince me to,
landing often beside closed arms and harsh words
and waking in a graveyard
of friendships and promises;
it’s my own fault
for assuming someone would catch me.

But the thing about being clumsy is
I don’t just fall,
I crash.

Ask Me Tomorrow

“You will find someone one day
who makes you feel worthwhile –
who convinces you
that you can move mountains,
pull tides,
ebb and flow through life
easily, with a grace you never knew you had.

“You will find something one day
that will remind you that you are a warrior,
a goddess,
a fucking hurricane with a purpose
and that purpose is to exist,
to bless everyone with your incredible self
and to care for them with a fierce passion
they never knew you could conjure.

“You will find some time one day
to forgive yourself of past mistakes and bad intentions
and to remind yourself
that you were never the problem
but rather, often self-love
was the solution
you never knew you were capable of.”

– excerpts from a pep talk

Girl, Unwanted

They told me
at age four
that I could be whatever I wanted to be
and without knowing how to read
the fine print of that statement,
I believed them.

They asked me
at age ten
what my favourite colour was
and I was ashamed to say pink
so I filled my mouth with every colour of the rainbow
to sweeten the taste of my lie.

They told me
at age thirteen
that I should be grateful
men three times my age whistled at me from cars
like a dog –
it was a compliment
wearing a frightening mask.

They asked me
at age sixteen
on first dates:
are you a tomboy or a girly girl?
As if there wasn’t a million other in-between people
I could have been.

They asked me
at age nineteen
if I was “like other girls”
and I flipped my hair and told them proudly,
guiltily, as I betrayed my sisters,
that no, I was not.

They tell me now,
at age twenty-two,
that I can still be whatever I want to be,
but all I can do
is choke on my anger
and hope one day I never have to regurgitate that lie
to my daughters.