It is said
by mouths that do not move
it is gauche to write about oneself
and she didn’t always, for the world had so many things to describe
until the sink hole swallowed her breath, tar covered and added feathers
her crimson brand ran like a howl down a deserted one-eyed street
if she were a fish she’d have no scales, and nothing to measure what she lost
nor a compass to find through hooded treeline, her way back to who she’d been before
this is the way of transformation
forced from our stage we are bound and gagged
the way forward obscured like rubbing grease on glass
it hurt to be cut by ice, it stung to know no intuitive language
hands tore at her sides whilst she slept on a brick within a house, held down by gravity
they told her; you will not recover it is time, to put aside hope
along with your beautiful dresses, your long dreams and afternoon sun
she wasn’t ready to lie, like a pin against other cold metal
to be counted and cooked to the marrow, ready for sucking
for she was warm, she was alive, she hadn’t climbed all her life, just to see a cloudy day
it wasn’t her way to admit defeat
as migrating birds returned and sat like tired audience to her calls for help
she knew, a fight is never asked for, it beckons you when you stand on cliffs edge
trying to count the ways you might die
such a sorrow in planning your own end, long before you intended
she still had so much still to do
hair to plait, skirts to hitch, and ride, ride out into the wilderness
where raw bones are the purest listener
they will hear you when you throw yourself down on wet moss and
burying your fevered head in earth, call upon angels
for protection was something she hadn’t thought of
since she was a little kid walking to school alone
and then she had an imaginary horse, and all the years to come
now, the clocks turn back, time rushes forward like an impulsive guest
who has drunk her fill
ransacking light she streaks out into the forest and you cannot follow
because she is quickly absorbed into gesturing evening dusk
perhaps never there at all
that’s how she feels now, half alive, half hanging on
at the witching hour, it is all she can do not to throw herself into the glittering lights of oncoming traffic
for she is not as strong as those who endure like a costume, their own brand of hell
she has only herself and it isn’t enough
so the words come
and they stay loose and unsure upon the page
as if they know her fragility and their own insubstantial compose
if she can stay long enough, maybe she’ll see something new
maintaining equal hope with encroaching dawn
that is when everything from the day before, gathers
turns to dust and we begin over, perhaps better
with every urging push, splitting apart, garnering strength from invisible force
as fierce and distant as a Northern wind
we who know, how to birth life and produce hope
from the fragility of almost nothing
(Inspired by RandomwordsbyRuth who said; “Survival is the highest form of compliment we can give ourselves.’)
21 Replies to “Birth”
So honestly & wonderfully written… but it was difficult to read, “she has only herself and it isn’t enough” because I don’t think that’s true for 2 reasons. First I believe you are more than enough to withstand anything that comes your way. And secondly, you are never truly alone… you have many friends in this world that care about your wellbeing, myself included. I know you didn’t mean it in that way, however I think it’s always worth telling someone that they are truly cared for & loved, which you are. <3
This just moved me so deeply. It reminded me of the tale of the handless maiden cast out into the wilderness with bandaged hands……. It is such a lonely journey and so deeply painful to be so emotionally abandoned, but I do believe we can gather our selves together after every force in our world has conspired to erase us or tear us apart. it takes a long time and a lot of tears and fears and anger. You are such a deeply talented writer. I stand in awe of what you express. Much love, sister <3
“however I think it’s always worth telling someone that they are truly cared for & loved, which you are. ❤”
I know you’re right. I wrote it when the illness made me feel that way, illness as you know has a way of making you feel so isolated. Also, people in person versus online is like more tangible, having an absence of actual breathing bodies or a family, just kind of feels alone I don’t mean to be ungrateful though I am so grateful. Sorry 🙁 and thank you 💓💓
Totally true. Amen.
Ungrateful isn’t in your DNA… and I had the same feelings myself when very ill, I completely understand. xx
“we who know, how to birth life and produce hope from the fragility of almost nothing”
This is one of the most brilliantly penned lines I’ve ever read my friend. 🙂 <3 xoxoxoxo
Sending a hug, and wishing I could give you one in person. 💞💕💞
A chiarascuro of fragility and strength – the essence of you xxx
Yes I had to look up that word (excellent word!) thank you R
Ditto. I really do too.
Wow thank you so much! That really made my first smile of the day. Maybe you do not know how many times you are the cause of my first smile of the day but it is many times. Sending you my love – every day of every week
Love that word – so descriptive 🙂 Just think – I actually found one you DIDN’T know!!!!
Ha! You my beautiful fin, know so much more than you confess you’re one of the smartest people I know.
Awww, shucks, she says, *shuffling her feet*
Sorry for what? You don’t have anything to apologise for!
Your opening lines grabbed me. It made me wonder, why do we write? Why do I write?
To me, writing serves at least two purposes.
The first one is to lighten my load, share it with people who have become friends and help remind me of who I am and of my worth when I tend to forget.
The second is to process my thoughts and emotions. It serves as a therapeutical tool, a way to put words onto intangible ideas, subconscious beliefs, so that I can recognise the negative ones and stop them in their track.
The third (I knew there was a third) is to share a story. I often tell stories about other people, but there are no stories I know better than my own. And my story is worth sharing if it can help others -feel less alone -avoid my mistakes -recognise abuse -stand up for themselves… and so many more things.
The fourth: no one knows me and my story as well as I, so no one can tell it as accurately as I. I’ve had someone try to tell me how I felt and what to think for most of my life. I’d rather tell my own story now!
So… go on, write! About yourself, about others… as long as it helps you and doesn’t hurt others, keep doing it!
And when the result is so moving it gets the readers to re-evaluate their own beliefs, then it’s really the worth it!
I’m so glad I make you smile often❣️😘🌹xoxoxo
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