Who will give us permission to ask for the things we believe we are unworthy of?
In the Grip of a Narcissist
A narcissist will make you question if you are worthy of love. They will almost make you hate yourself because they can turn your natural need for their attention against you, making it a shameful thing, making you ashamed of yourself for being so weak and pitiful. You start hating being inside your own mind, inside your own skin. You start becoming intimate with loathing.
It’s so interesting how quickly we lose ourselves. It’s as if we don’t believe in the weight we hold with how swiftly we find ourselves shuffled underneath the weight of someone’s opinion, or rejection, or even if it’s an impossible thing, it still feels like rejection. When you make the choice to heal and to start gathering all of your scattered pieces, it feels like getting to know yourself all over again, and what a lovely thing that is. I stumble upon bits and pieces of myself with a surprised exclamation every time. “Oh, I DO love to write poetry, and I can write to my hearts content! I have a blog, and that IS an excellent thing, and I can enjoy it as much as I want. Oh yes, I remember now, I do love my inquisitive nature and I can find joy in pursuing all of my hobbies again. And no one can take that from me.” It’s a shame how quickly we snuff ourselves out when someone fails to recognize our inherent gifts and we die a sort of death. But the beauty is that we can always choose to come alive again, and each time feels a little more magical than the last.
I search for you in my blackest
my drunken, misguided North Star.
Born of cunning and velvet
and the spaces between stars,
you were clothed by your maker in all the ways I yearned for you.
Were you a fever dream I restlessly brought forth
or were you sent to torment me
for all my wanton sins?
I’ve repented of each one a thousand times
if only to remove the scent of you from every layer of my skin.
Between pleas flung into the inky night,
are you come as my salvation or my ruin?
Dues and all the ways I’ve paid them
If longing were a mountain
You are the one on which I die
Fly away, black raven
With every word I free, I tear
pieces of my soul
from your double fisted grip that
caressed me and
acquainted me with bitter loss.
You, who stood silhouetted
against everything I wantonly desired.
Dark, Machiavellian symphony
with lilting melodies of aching tenderness.
With blood red lips
I whisper desperate
The depth of my longing for you
How do you kill so beautifully?
have you lit inside my veins, etching
my walls and stars with ruin?
I am become the ages
filled with echoes of unfulfilled
I’ve been working on a poem again. Reading some of the breathtaking things on here has really been inspiring me to put the pen to the paper..but that is a work in progress. In the meanwhile, please don’t mind my sharing moments of absolute joy ♥️
Prettier Than a Broken Heart
If I could write to you of sorrow, if I could explain this devastation,
I’d use words like utterly, and calamity, and grief.
But the words refuse my bidding, choosing to cloak themselves in darkness and half formed thoughts instead.
They shuffle off their course like drunken sailors, lose their way somewhere between half-hearted and dejected.
With quivering chins and sagging limbs, I’ve not the strength to make them dance
to fool a broken heart into being
prettier than it ever is.
Another Year Wiser, or so They say
I awake this morning feeling nothing out of the ordinary except for the stream of messages pinging on my phone. They are sweet and warm my heart like no other. Birthdays are a way to remind people in your life that they do, indeed, love you. Anyway, here’s a note I wrote in my phone several years ago and still continue to feel this way about December.
What is it about December that makes it such an enchanting time of the year? Perhaps it’s the promise of joy, and snow, and cozy nights by the fire sipping decadent hot chocolate out of your favorite orange mug. Maybe it is the promise of stolen kisses under fragrant boughs of holly, or the excitement of bulging stockings hung in a haphazard row on the fireplace mantle. Whatever the case, December allows for young and old children alike to bring out their inner sparkle and bathe in the golden glow of love, and good, and kindness. Although I must admit that I may be a little biased considering that December also happens to be my birthday month 👸🏻✨🌨🎄🌬✨❄️