Dirty

I am a fucking warrior. A survivor. I have leaves in my hair, blood in my mouth, and holes in my clothes. I stand before you with a medal in my fist and more achievements to my name than most will earn in a lifetime. You FORGED ME. You left me out to die and I THRIVED.

And YOU. Have lost ALL CREDENCE in criticizing the state of me, of my scars, or my abilities.

Who are you? Loud aggressor, who not only haven't felt the fires I've walked through, but lit them, kindled them, and pushed me in?

You can't touch me.

I know who I am.

Fever Pitch

 I turned my volume down. Curbed my language. Shifted my priorities. Paused myself. Squeezed into a dress made for a ghost. Who am I now?

You said I offended you even then. Why did you pretend? Or are you pretending now?

Who could love someone so big? So brash? So lonely? So ambitious? So much? There is so much of me. Who could possibly make room for me without modifications? Without trimming the fat of my passions, my humor, my interests, my voice, my attention, my thirst for little droplets of affection? Who could love me without telling me to tone down? Is it dangerous - that I could still grow?

I could swallow the world if it told me I was enough. Just enough. Not too much. The right amount.

I just want to be the right amount.

.

"Put me next to another - they've got gadgets and gizmos, all I have is a torso. A box with a pipe and a shutter; it heaves, it swells, and it sighs and it yells."

Maybe your name was Calliope

 My mind is in 2012 today. My body is in the recovery room, someone yelling over me about not breathing and my lips turning blue. I'm in the day stay bed, a clueless nurse insisting she won't tell me which surgery they did, because nobody remembers anything after anesthesia anyways. I'm laying in bed in a home that isn't mine, scared to look down at my stomach, listening to the song I used to sing to my baby.

I take every year's anniversary off, but grief doesn't stay on its designated day. How long am I going to keep knitting blankets for a baby I never got to hold?

Sunday

You leaned over to kiss me and
I was intoxicated for a moment
The way your stubble felt
Grazing a reminder across my cheek
I turned my head
Hoping
You'd kiss my neck so I could breathe you in
Like a deep fog
Like a rolling evening storm
You didn't

I miss the feel of you

Your skin is earth and
I want to be buried

There Was No Funeral

One of my favorite poems:
"This Woman"
by Alysia Harris

The line that gives me chills and fills my eyes up with tears:

"To all the women who have been

Pried open,

Propped up,

And Jadaposed:

I'm sorry

There was no funeral for the going out of your smile

And the coming in of strangers."

No, there was no funeral. There was no funeral, and for years, there was no recognition. I was reminded that the louder I yelled, the more worthless I was underneath my insistence that I. WAS. WORTH. SOMETHING.

I dreamed about strangers who would quietly peel off my armor, look at me, hold me, and see who I am.

Just see me.

Not tell me who I am. Not define me. Just give me some credit.

Strangers who might love me for the blood on my hands and my clothes, might see my life and aspirations as a work in progress, might offer me the soft, quiet benefit of the doubt, the security, the unwavering assurance and peaceful extended arms that would have allowed me to relax, set down my burden, and rest.