Her

her

Cry for the little girl whose mommy always cries
Cry for the little girl whose daddy is never home
Who overhears loud fighting
And crashes in the middle of the night.
Cry for the little girl who stopped getting lullabies.
Cry for the little girl who had a nightmare one night
And who crawled into her mommy and daddy’s bed for comfort.
Cry for the little girl whose daddy touched her between her legs
Cry for the little girl who didn’t want to hurt her daddy
but she was getting hurt, too
So she hit him
And hit him
And hit him.
Cry for the little girl who went back to bed
Cry for the little girl who woke up confused, wet with urine,
And no one talked to her.
Cry for the little girl who made herself believe it was just her nightmare
The nightmare that she will have for decades to come.
The nightmare that will come back
Again, and again, and again, and again.
Cry for the little girl whose mommy started drinking
Whose lungs are burning and aching with smoke.
Cry for the little girl whose sister began to get angry
Who was placed in a dryer and had it turned on
Who was locked in a meat freezer
Who was electrocuted
And drowned
And beaten with a rock
And still has all the scars to prove it.
Cry for the little girl who slept outside one night
And no one noticed she was gone.
Cry for the little girl who slept outside for three weeks
And no one noticed she was gone.
Cry for the little girl who lost her virginity
And then he broke her rib
Cry for the little girl who was spit at, beat up and locked in lockers at school
Cry for the little girl whose mother threw chairs
And thought she was branded by Satan
And choked her daughters if they got out of line.
Cry for the little girl whose father was home now but too drunk to care.
Cry for the little girl who was drugged by boys
Again, and again, and again, and again
Cry for the little girl who started fantasizing about her father
Who loathed her own sexuality and was disgusted with her skin.
Cry for the little girl who fooled around with an older boy in a hot tub
Only to realize his friends were filming nearby
And what about that boyfriend that uploaded that video
The one of her going down on him to that porn site, cry about that too.
Cry for the little girl who was called a whore, a slut, easy, a piece of pussy, trash, loose, a bitch, a cunt, and such a fucking tease.
Cry for the little girl who had six,
Or was it seven
Fraternity boys attack her, rip her clothes off and throw them out the window.
Who went back home and had no one to tell.
Cry for the little girl who was raped by the neighbor boy
And still, 13 years later can’t drive down his road.
Cry for the little girl who was brave enough to leave and never look back.
Cry for the little girl who was raped again only one month later.
Remembering his piercing cold blue eyes, but was a total stranger.
Cry for the little girl whose doctor came in without gloves and forced himself inside her
Cry for the little girl whose masseuse went too high up her thigh
And wouldn’t stop, even when she cried.
Cry for the little girl who was assaulted three more times.
But can’t remember.
A silhouette of a person, an outline, a negative space cut out from reality.
Cry for the little girl whose memories began to evaporate from time
Cry for the little girl who was convinced by an older man that he could save her
Who just wanted to play with her
Who just wanted to use her, abuse her, degrade her, defile her, torture her and scar her
Again, and again, and again, and again
Cry for the little girl who was brave enough to leave and never look back.
Cry for the little girl who sought recovery.
Who faced her suicidal tendencies,
And her instincts to hurt and to hate.
Cry for the little girl who finally found her voice.
Once meager and weak
But now she could speak,
What a beautiful sound.
Cry for the little girl who learned about trust.
Not just in others, or herself, but in all of us.
Cry for the little girl who wanted her family again
And realized they were in more pain than her
So she cried for them.
Cry for the little girl who learned about love.
For the first time, feeling genuine care.
For being fearful of what she owed in return,
Realizing love is not a debt.
Cry for the little girl who learned how to make love.
With her spirit, her mind, her conscious body and her ever-grateful heart.
Cry for her joy, her returning childlike wonder, her intrigue with life.
Cry for her rejuvenation,
Her renewed sense of innocence
And Her resurrection.
Cry for the little girl that learned how to forgive.
Who prayed and cried for those who hurt her
For seeing clearly their pain like mountains over Her calm valley of water.
And once the tears have fallen, once they have rained into Her river
Watch them drift back to the sea
The vast horizon that is Her love
Not just for you, but for everybody.
Do not cry for the little girl, not anymore.
She does not want your tears.
This little girl has now lived for many years.
Cry for the sick, the disturbed, the tormented and weak.
Cry for their souls some refuge to seek.
Cry for their reflection, their need to introspect.
Cry for their lack of empathy and their inability to connect.
Cry for their healing, their cold and confused hearts.
Cry for our sake, for without their health we’ll all be pulled apart.
Our people are a hurting one, place your weapons down.
Speak up, trust, love
Only Her peace will be found.

A Color Darker Than Black

Sky

These last 14 days without my father have been the hardest days I’ve experienced in a long time.  I’ve been a witness to death before, but this one is a new breed of aching.  It’s a depression that strikes at any moment.  It takes my breath away and then fills my burning eyes with salty tears that I thought were dried up. My thoughts are consistently scattered and I am leaping from one feeling to the next, like bullfrogs on lily pads, careful not to fall into the water.

There is so much comfort in my world that there have been moments where I feel like I could become a lighthouse directing all around me to the beacon of love itself.  And then almost instantly, my heart collapses and I feel cold metal sludging through my veins, fearful I will be numb forever.

My faith is unwavering though and I know that I have seen darker hours.  And even if I hadn’t, I realize my purpose is to be a vessel for the universe to use as she wishes.  I am a constant student, unlearning everything all day long so that I can become empty for her to fill me up again and again. Bring me pain, bring me beauty, lead me where you need me.

My dad is a cloud and he turned into snow – he continued on to his next and newest form.  A form that is unbeknownst to me. But in my reflections of him, I feel his peace, his lightness of heart, his youth and above all – his love.  As a friend recently said to me, “…there would be no day at all without love. There’d certainly be no night. Or any other infinite thing.”

My human mind can’t comprehend why pain is necessary, why “bad things happen to good people” or why there can be so much savagery in the world – but I do understand balance. I see the pendulum. I’ve swung from one extreme into love and light. Everything is temporary, and so is this hurt. I have a choice to live well and love through the ache and I will always side with love and allow the brilliant universe to continue to show me the way.

A Color Darker Than Black
I dreamed of driving alone in the desert
taking pictures of shadows.
I never expected to know people.
Loneliness felt like enough until it wasn’t.
I was enough until I wasn’t.
I am not weak in my worship, oh world.
My eyes are simply weighted and my body does not feel of my own.
Lead me, use me and I will grow vibrantly like a wild tiger lily.
No explanations required.
Venus has had fewer men than I.
Speaking their words, fueling their desire with my primal fire.
Still, the empty hollow in my chest begs
Whimpering and broken I plead for peace
Not yet ready, there is a color darker than black.
Clawing and grasping for breath this darling girl has resilience.
You see, I am a time traveler.
I can see all of the parallel universes, the past expressions,
the future is not unknown – it is written.
This blackness does not hurt me
it wets my appetite and forgetfully reveals the opposite side of the spectrum –
the blinding, effervescent light.
A kaleidoscope of color – timeless, limitless.
Will you feel it all with me?
Sit by my fireside,
and read the most elegant love letter ever written.

A sober, slow-burning love

The Boy Who Never Sleeps

I was hospitalized recently.  After 9 hours of tests, scans and lotsssss of morphine, it was determined that I had a ruptured ovarian cyst.  (Didn’t even know I had a cyst.)  (Also, didn’t know how painful a rupture could be! Answer: V.E.R.Y.)  The experience left me dazed, dizzy and drunk, likely from the morphine.  But weirdly enough, after feeling scared during a few points throughout the day, I left with a strange feeling of sadness that it wasn’t something worse.

I sat on this over the last week and went through a myriad of questions to understand why I felt that way.  Did I want pity from people?  Do I want to be a martyr?  Why would I selfishly want for something worse?  I’ve found my answer – I wanted to know what was next. What happens after this?  What is the continuation of our human existence?  I’m so excited to learn that answer that I felt impatient.

I have tried to commit suicide 3 times now.  Each time, my life had been saved only by the grace of a higher power, and not by a mishap on my end.  Fortunately, I have spent years in therapy, group sessions and additionally I have spent years mentoring and counseling young girls (and some boys) on depression and how to overcome childhood adversity. So my suicidal days are long behind me.  Knowing this about myself, I was eager to learn why my curiosity for death came back, but in a new form.

I like the sentiment “I’d rather die 10 minutes early than 10 years too late,”  but it doesn’t completely apply to how I feel.  I am ready when the universe deems me ready.  On my last attempt with suicide, I remember looking up at the sky in a nearly blacked-out state saying, “I get it, you win.”  And I meant that 100%.  I am powerless over my own death.  The universe, God, my higher power, Mother Earth – the Architect – directed me down a challenging, beautiful, tragic, brilliant path and I am forever grateful for every day I wake.  I am also grateful for my abnormal and unexpected desire to understand death as it’s enabled me to live with no fear.  My fearlessness and resilience are two of my favorite attributes of myself.

I wrote a post last year, “Accepting Death & Being Rewarded with Life,” where I talk about the bliss of owning your own life and no longer being beholden to your death.  I encourage all who read this to try contemplating their own death for a little bit to see what fears, notions, and stirrings come up.  Only when we ask questions and seek answers will we know the depths of ourselves. Stay curious my friends.

(I wrote this poem two days after my hospital stay.)

A Slow-Burn
Please don’t forget.
I know your memory flickers like an old tallow candle.
A strong, vibrant burn.
Pure without smoke, but with one clever gust –
Extinguished.
Longing to light a room once more.
But don’t forget this one.
Delicate caresses from tender hands.
Dizzying, drunken cells excited, heated,
Fireflies born between them.
Please don’t forget.
A tear fell from your left eye as a strand of your curled strawberry hair was tucked gently behind your ever-eager and listening ear.
You were frightened but he was there.
Allowing a soft brush alongside the curve of your cheek and down the jaw,
Eyes meeting only briefly in the dimly lit 3am apartment.
Recall, be certain, do not alter this one.
It’s innocent.
Comforted by your ancestry, affectionate solicitude.
His fountain streaming into your blood and circulating through thoughts and daydreams.
Never waking, forever wanting,
Another foggy ocean night.
Please don’t forget the harmonies of your heartbeats, the rhythm and pulse, raising and lowering your heavy head upon his sleepy chest.
His hand lowered slowly,
Drifting, drifting, drifting…
Dreaming of his moonlit ballerina in the sand.
His eyes, his hands, his thoughts pulling you in, holding at a distance.
Unrequited or not, the sky is twinkling with his songs,
And your hands are filled with stars.
The dance, the kindness, the faithful hearts that are never to be misjudged.
Too true the intentions to have standoffish defenses –
Love is a flower and he is your garden.
Thankful and enraptured that you’re allowed to love him
But whatever you do,
Don’t forget –
This is a sober love.
One without surrender,
The kind that is forever patient and requiring protection.
Like your slow-burning memory and its glass hurricane against the harsh winter winds.