Luna-puppy

I only wish to blossom, like new sprouts through the frost, pulled forth by a warmth they cannot see, but only feel. Let me wash these wounds, though through tears or blood, I shan't say, knowing only the warm that will come with the cleansing. May I continue to be broken and scattered, left to the wind, casted everywhere. Hoping some soil will give way underfoot, and may this heart be planted, and take root strong.

Feeling tired, bitter, and yet so tragically hopeful of tomorrow. A new song makes rattles of arteries and veins- blue to red as it flows, taking in oxygen, giving life.

It seeps its way to visibility through cracks and gashes opened wide by own body, habits seeming to fester with new vigor alongside old wounds.

How many more promises must be splintered and left in shards? Frailness, truly. Is that all that I am?

Emptiness, hollow rage, words falling on deaf ears as we scream to the rooftops over cries of religious joy. Forced to bring babes into existence with their only purpose of life being to tick a square for the Republican party. Those with uteruses are nothing more than breeding cows to the GOP- live babies make the best dead soldiers, if you didn't know.

#abortionisahumanright

Sick, disgusted, having my stomach churn and body ache, with fear and angst and pain, for those that are suffering, and those in fear for their lives. We are being stripped of rights, of bodily autonomy, and I worry more, every passing day. How many more must die in the hands of a government that sees us as nothing but sheep to the slaughter.

Sometimes, the dark is too kind to this shattered being, tendrils of shadow caressing deep caverns of my soul. I find myself falling into them, the release that floods these veins sickeningly sweet. Ecstasy from the loss, clouds gather in fog, taking with them what sense remained. Melt, be with it, allow the embrace to take hold. Parting forever will bring such great sorrow.

Questioning how and why and when, the words meaningless sputtering nonsense lost to the wind. Will never be, will never come to pass, allow thoughts to die at night. Imagination, dreams, the longing to be wanted, to be needed. A passing figment of reality within the spirals of infinity.

Self-discovery, underneath the layers of dust, debris and snow. Dig. Pull from the rubble what remains, the scattered fragments lost in the cold refinding warmth and light in hands far too caring for such a broken work of art. Tragically beautiful, wounded and scarred. Yet still standing, still strong.