overcoming fears.

in the way that some find solace in eating a shit ton of chocolate, i find my peace in writing. most often, it's letters to those who are causing me incredible pain or providing me with irreparable kindness or love. sometimes, though, i find inspiration in the most unlikely of places and out flows poetry. i tend not to share it because i'm incredibly self-conscious about my poetry but i realized that if there's even a slight chance that any of the following ring a bell with you or provide you with the same comfort i found in writing them, they're worth sharing. enjoy <3

lipstick.

the little girl
stares at the mirror
mother's lipstick in hand
wondering how her mama does it.
how does she paint herself, so painstakingly
every day
staring at the mirror
as seconds, minutes, maybe even hours pass
what is she looking at?
the little girl, she
she tries to understand
she grabs that lipstick and she smears
and in the mirror, she sees
she sees
a clown.
a word she doesn't know yet.
she sees
a fraud.
she sees paint
covering up natural beauty
she sees an extra splash of color
on a canvas that's already
so. beautiful.
a canvas that is beautiful and full
of color and vibrancy and song.
staring in that mirror,
the little girl transforms
from a girl to a woman.
breasts rounding out,
ass growing larger
hips the size of jupiter
and she stares.
smearing the lipstick that she hopes will cover the sadness.
the hate.
the torture she experiences
on a daily basis.
torture equivalent to a genocide.
or a femicide.
or a homicide.
because, at the end of the day,
isn't it all the same?
isn't it always violence
fueled by hatred?
fueled by a lack of understanding,
a lack of love,
a lack of power or agency or...
love.
a four-letter word, so powerful
so well placed
so often used.
almost like another four letter word we all know.
hate.
they say those words are two sides of the same coin.
hey.
i don't know if that's true.
but i know
that when you look in the mirror
and that word flashes across your mind
consciously
sub-consciously
spoken, in your mind, or aloud
that word.
is. a. weapon.
a weapon that should be feared
like guns in schools.
like bombs in Iraq.
like drugs on the street.
that word
should. be. outlawed.
because it is not hate that gives this world hope
it is not self-hatred
or negligence
or fraud.
it is love.
love we have for one another.
love we have for our mother.
love
love
love, maybe, one day, we should have for
ourselves.

feathers and rocks.

because you are beautiful.

because you should love without regrets.

in the way that makes you cry harder than you ever have.

in the way that makes you feel like your soul is being ripped in two.

in the way that you can't get out of bed some days, tears leaking out of your eyes, pillow (or teddy bear) hugged tight to your chest

while the memories - the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful - race through your mind 

and visualization exercises and yoga and meditation and breathing don't help.

for those days you wish it would all just go away.

know that it won't. 

know that in order to love, you must accept it first.

because at the end of all that pain is something beautiful.

something that teaches you about yourself.

something that shows you the true beauty in the world.

something that defies all odds, almost like it can defy gravity. 

we all know that a feather falls as fast as a rock in a vacuum.

be the rock. be the feather.

it doesn't matter.

because at the end of the day,

we're all the same.

and we're all going to fall.

a spoken word piece - tomorrow. 

            The silence presses in all around her, reminiscent of his hands around her neck, squeezing, tightening, gripping like a baby’s hand wound tightly around her mother’s hair. Except here, in this moment, there is no love. No comfort. No solace. Just pain.

            She didn’t even feel that last blow to her face, couldn’t feel the handfuls of hair he ripped out of her scalp, barely noticed the warm rush of blood cascading down her cheek. She is numb.

            Numb from the inside out, outside in – there is nothing left.

            Somewhere in the distance, glass shatters and she is surprised that the noise even registered. Surprised that she can still hear. Surprised that she is still alive.

            She keeps her eyes shut tightly, waits for the darkness to sweep her back under, waits for the moment when consciousness will never return to her, for the blissful moment in which she will actually turn into the nothingness, the nothing she has been led to believe she is.

            She hears her name. Whore. She hears him calling her. Slut. And as the footsteps come closer, as his words get louder, “Bitch, get up,” the fear returns. The panic sets in, replacing the calm of unconsciousness like the clouds replace the sun in the moments before the sky falls apart and the Heavens unleash themselves onto the world. Except here, in this moment, there is no Heaven. Only the bottomless pits of Hell, the burning of the never-ending fire, the eternity of punishment for the grievous sins she must have committed to deserve a life like this.

            She watches from above herself as he yanks her up off the ground, watches herself blink her one good eye, tenderly touch the eye that seems to be permanently swollen shut. She stumbles as he shoves her towards the kitchen. The acrid smell of stale cigarettes and fresh whiskey drowns out the stench of her own blood, of the sick splattered down her front. And as she staggers towards the fridge to pull out the eggs for his breakfast, she marvels that she is still breathing, wonders how she made it through six years with him, wishes for the day that he will finally use that gun he keeps brandishing around on her, waits for the day that she’ll be able to join that tiny, innocent being he kicked out of her belly.

            “Tomorrow, maybe,” she thinks as she sets the plate in front of him. Today, she survived. But maybe, maybe tomorrow.