If I had more strength to speak, maybe I wouldn’t be so quiet,
maybe it wouldn’t be such a popular topic
attached to my name.
But behind I scream in silence
to be more than a point of disinterest
to be more colourful than grey.
Though efforts are wasted,
day after day,
stopping on deaf ears
the tides turn
until all I hope for
The voice of the voiceless continues to cry out
selling slivers of my soul just to survive
for those who can’t afford the time
to listen more
and keep their whips at bay.
All I want,
all I hope for
is for time to let these scabs stay closed,
a new layer that won’t tear so easily,
so when they look at me like I’m a monster
I’ll know I’m still human.
Children are not possessions.
Children are not accessories.
Children are not relationship band aids.
They are tiny people with the same amount of feelings as an adult.
But with less capacity to process, express and healthily contain those feelings when necessary.
Be kind to them.
I was just thinking about this the other day. We often look back at the choices we made and wonder how we didn’t know better and the simple answer was that we didn’t. Parents look to children and wonder why they don’t act a certain way. We forget children are inexperience packed in the same emotional turmoil. We can’t expect them to know and act how we wish. We certainly didn’t know everything back then and we still don’t now.
Last night, you dreamt that you peeled away your birthmarks,
Flicked them from your fingertips like paint,
Watched them splatter across the walls.
You left your Jackson Pollock imitation, your natural tattoos
Scattered on the old plaster. You watched pieces of yourself
Escape you and become vandalism.
Your skin didn’t feel the same—smoother now, milkier, plainer.
The blank canvas feeling wasn’t as euphoric as you’d imagined,
And you stared at the walls knowing that their decoration
Didn’t belong to you anymore. It looked like graffiti,
But you wanted it to be more.
And you woke up with that question tucked behind your tongue,
Waiting for someone to reach in and dig it out,
To excavate the fears you didn’t know you had.
And you woke up begging, startled, afraid to look down at your hands
And count the freckles between your knuckles.
But the galaxies, the sketches, and the poetry written all over you at birth
Are still there come daylight.