She walks on toes, in silence dressed,

As if her presence is a guest.

Years of echoes, sharp and rough-

Too loud, too soft, not good enough.

Too much, too little-constant doubt,

That made her want to phase right out.



Compliments land like drops on stone,

They touch but never claim her bone.

“You’re strong, your kind, you shine so bright”-

But her own voice dims all that light.

“They don’t know you”, it softly sighs,

“The fear you mask, the truth you hide.”



She second-guesses every sound-

Each word returns, a ghost abound,

Haunting her in nightmare’s hush,

When the world has lost its rush.



Still-she's learning, step by step,

Through every wound she’s ever kept.

To trust the view that others see-

Not brokenness, but bravery.



Not the girl once coldly told

Her worth was something bought or sold,

A maybe, shifting, not quite real-

Just based on how she made them feel.



But the woman who still wakes each day,

Who shows up, even when afraid.

Who loves with scars the world can see,

And dares to think; “I might be me.”



Perhaps her pride does not yet roar,

But hums beneath her, evermore.

A steady thrum, a whispered song,

That tells her she’s been strong all along.



Her pride may not yet roar or rise,

But hums beneath-her quiet prize.

A steady thrum, a whispered song,

That says she’s been strong all along.





She's not quite there-but still she tries,

And wipes the doubt out from her eyes.

And sometimes, in the mirrors gleam,

She catches glimpses of the dream.



The woman others swear is true-

And in that flash, believes it too.

Is there anything more gorgeous than a human being rising, greeting their own soul again after the distance nearly tore them apart?  

-Rhia Clay

Fire

There is a fire inside my soul,  
with flames dancing beneath my skin, casting shadows against my cheeks.  
I feel my spirit rise after enduring so much.  
I sense the fire lingering, along with the sun and the life springing forth from my lungs.  
And you, God, you draw me into your depths, reminding me of who I am,  
and that I am not finished yet.  
This world has tried to bury me with its furious fists and powerful hands,  
and yet, here I stand.

-Rhia Clay

You are my safe place
The shadows that hunt me
You are my safe place
The screams from pain
You are my safe place
The terrors in my sleep
You are my safe place
The voices that doubt me
You are my safe place
The blood from the past
You are my safe place
The forbidden hands on my skin
You are my safe place
The wicked tougues slander my name
You are my safe place
The victim from abuse
You are my safe place
The darkness that draws me in
You are my safe place

- Shelly Ramos

Beyond the stars where they dwell,
the void appears - a grief as old as time itself.
And the old man sees, with eyes eternal it seems,
yet his eyes as empty as he.

The night shines, and the void retreats, The sun burns, and the void aches.
for though it stretched through endless dark
the void is weaker than its shadow's mark.

It claims the space where light has gone, but flees when morning sings its song.
A hollow king with crown of dust, crumbled by a ray of trust.

So, fear not the void, though vast it seems for even night must yield to dreams.
And though it hides in realms unknown, Its power fades before Dawn.

Little petals fell from the tree above us;
their paths were so long they were narrow and so unpredictable they had to have been predetermined.
An invisible breeze traveled through our hands, heads, and hearts.

I looked to my lover on the left of me.
The teal and yellow sky behind her,
paired with the little pink flowers just out of focus casted a speckled shadow on her face.
Her eyes conveyed sadness
but smile held strong.
Cigarette burns were pressed onto her flushed skin.
It was warm but she wore a black cardigan
with a feathery collared shirt below it.

“I stopped singing years ago,”
she chirped up.
Her words did not address me
and neither did her gaze;
both floated on the wind just the same as the petals did.
“I don’t cut it,”
lies,
“my notes crack,
I can’t sing as high as I should,
even in church I’d fear I might just stumble like a clumsy fool.”

Still,
sure as ever,
her voice carried a sweet melody that ran their fingers through my hair while they swam in the wind.
Each vowel held a hidden harmony.

“Really, there’s nothing to it-
that’s what they say.
The rhymes and rhythm were all out of place, but I stayed,”
her throat grew firm, yet full of cheer forevermore,
“Until I didn’t.”

She turned to face me but something stopped her.
Perhaps the wind,
perhaps herself.
“I suppose I must’ve stopped once you’d gone.”
Her bronze hair shook on her head and she pulled her legs up,
creating small waves in the grass
just as her voice had.
“Words didn’t mean the same, neither did any music I could share.
‘Pity,’
they’d say,
‘such a beautifully sad thing that you gave up,’ they’d say.
And I do think it true,”
admitted she whilst resting
her arms atop her knees,
chin atop her arms, and
head atop her chin.
“I did,”
she strained her words as soft as syrup,
“give up.”
Her back moved to and fro’, pressing against the bark of the apple tree
then not,
then pressed,
then not.
“What is an artist without drive?
A singer, when she can’t hear her own music?”

“Pity,”
said I,
“such a beautifully sad thing you don’t recognize yourself.”
My head shook like the branches above.
“What a smith you are, love.
You say your voice cracks,
yet each pitch it jumps onto is more delicate than the last.
You claim inability to reach the top,
but you can sing for yourself.”
My lover’s velvet covered legs pulled closer to her chest and she lifted her eyes to listen.
“I’m not necessary for your song.”

“What, pray tell, do you mean, love?”

“I reckon you never did stop singing.”

Life, mean—

Unkind it seems.

A battle fierce,

A shattered dream.

Yet in the dark,

A spark still gleams,

And through the storm,

Mankind redeems.
How do you feel,
as you carry on?

Is life meant for you,
or mean all along?