.

How do we mend wavering pedestals...
When the ground beneath is parched dry.
Stemming off loose foundations that time had weathered wry.

How do we mend broken gazes...
When watchful eyes which were meant to see,
are blinded by the onslaught of half-truths and fallacy.

How do we mend burnt bridges...
When we never look back to trace heavy missteps.
We fail to admit to consciously springing obvious traps.

How do I mend ailing hearts...
When familiar corridors seem warped to a bend.
When my own is struggling and perpetually on the mend.

Her story is a simple one
Two married parents, and an only child
Not poor, not rich
She had a name, but according to her peers it’s not important
They thought her names were Fatso, Ugly, Cow, Disgrace
She let it happen because she knew something
Something they did not even know about themselves
They were not as tough as they acted, they were scared
“Scared of what?” she did not know, it could be anything
What was she scared of? Nothing
Of them? The ones who tease her? Never
She could never be afraid of people she pitied
You may judge her for allowing this to happen to herself when she is supposedly so fearless
But if you judge her, what makes you different from the antagonists of her life?
I suppose her story isn’t simple
But it isn’t considered complex either
Because it happens everyday to people like her
They share Her Story

You never really know how strong you are until you're alone,
crying and forced to pick yourself up off the floor.
That is when you can truly see how big your emotional muscles are
and I promise
they are bigger than you ever thought possible.

sometimes when i'm asleep i hear whispers.

ghosts of all the men i let decimate my sanctuary

thinking they came to worship.

the men who came with flowers,

fragrances and exquisite offerings

who left with my sobriety.

many pieces of me are

somewhere in the world

being given as bounty to other women

expecting to be loved as i did.