“When You Can Tell Your Story And It Doesn’t Make You Cry, That’s When You Know You’ve Healed.”

Good Person

am I a good person?

a question that I fear

it haunts my waking nightmares with its overwhelming aura

a ring light made of noise

a circle made of hurt

it trembles when I consider that it really could be true

I am a good person?

I don't think I believe

it's hard for me to fathom that I really could have worth

a currency of questions

a stock market of deeds

it pains me just to realize that I am a person, too

with every inch of you a miracle, their palates growing weary of wine, this grace from which you've fallen, that grave from which you climb,

with every mile of you like magic, stretched, a black ribbon round me,

a hare in your hat,

the curtain drawn - you saw me in half

and every half of me a creature, atlas-shoulered brittle, butterfly wings

flapping,

a sea of typhoon winds at my command

Just feel, just feel, just feel, and I think it is so simple

yet the layers are much deeper than garnish,

much harder to reconcile a heart and a soul with everything and nothing.

If only you were like dusk at sea, serene and comforting around my shoulders.

© Anna S. 2024

I hope with time you can breathe easier within yourself and all that hurt your heart that did not deserve to touch it will fade as your soul heals while all those tears you cried become flowers that bloom to sweeten your path and that a time to smile will come as you let yourself turn toward the abundant warmth of light and open to the beautiful kiss of life -J.Wool, Kiss of Life

mental health day

i took a mental health day today

it took me 20 minutes to convince myself

but i did it

and i read a book

and colored

and it was so easy

i wish everything could be that easy

but its back to school tomorrow

i am asked about my favorite color.

i am seven

and my reply is

pink

because i am a girl

and pink

is a princess color.

i am asked about my favorite color.

i am ten

and i like

green

because a boy told me that pink

is lame and girly.

i am asked about my favorite color.

i am thirteen

and i tell them

purple

it is unique and spunky

like i want to be.

i am asked about my favorite color.

i am seventeen

and i just say

red

i do not say

it is bright and angry at the world

as i am

i cannot form the words to express

all of my frustrations

so i paint my lips with

rage.

i am asked about my favorite color.

i am twenty

and it’s pink

i remember the joy

of being a child

i reclaim the freedom

of femininity

because i cannot remember

what my shoulders felt like

before the depression

hung from them.

i am asked about my favorite color.

i am twenty-six

and my answer is

brown

it confuses most people

they don’t see it

they may think of dirt

and dust

and dead things

but it is coffee with friends

and the chocolate chip cookies

my mom used to make.

it is my hair

and my eyes

amber and gold

in the sun

and i love myself

again

feminine rage

i was 11

crying over the loss of a friend

"boys and girls are just different" my mom told me

was it helpful or trivializing

i'm still not sure

i was 12

they told us something like 1 in 4 girls are assaulted

we looked around the room

wondering who it might be

terrified of the answer

they told us what the men are looking for

our eyes turned on ourselves

we didn't want to make ourselves more of a target

i was 13

during a self-defense class at church

we learned how to hit, how to kick

how to pop a man's eyes out of his head

barely a teenager

and they told me to hit the dummy like i really meant it

i was 13

ruth bader ginsburg died, and i cried

i rarely cried over anything then

but i cried over her

trump was already trying to replace her that night

i was 14

sitting in the front of the car

while my brothers in the back

made a joke about sexual assault

i wanted to scream at them

but i didn't

i was 14

we were working on a story about the dress code

one of the girls mentioned

that it hadn't mattered what she was wearing

my heart broke

i was 15

i watched as they stripped my right to my body

as people around me celebrated

what happened to my choice

a boy asked me to stop talking about it

for the girls in our class to stop using dark humor

as our only coping mechanism

said it made him uncomfortable

he still has all his rights

i am 16

a friend calls while she is running

just to feel safer

i have to explain to the boys in the room

that she didnt want to talk

she wanted to not be a target

i am 16

my brother says that sometimes

women are so annoying

he just wants to shoot them

i'm not sure he doesn't mean it

i am 16

"it must be his time of the month"

one boy jokes about another acting irrationally

it isn't funny

but i sit in silence anyways

i don't want to be accused of being emotional, too

i am 16

"men's lives are more challenging" he argues

he ignores every point we make

he was never going to listen

but we still try, desperately

finally our teacher shuts us down

i want to yell or cry or do anything to release the rage bottling up inside

the rage that runs through my veins

all of our veins

when they belittle us and take away our rights and make us feel weak

and we let them

because it's all they ever taught us to do

anxiety

my mother told me i had to go to the dentist on monday

cue the instant anxiety attack

you would think

my parents

who love me

would take my anxiety seriously

"stop complaining"

"you're pitching a fit"

"i don't want to hear it"

"you have to go"

they treat me like a child

throwing a temper tantrum

i've had anxiety my whole life

and they don't care

and now im crying

i emailed my teacher to get an extension on an assignment

(all that's left to do is color)

and the email sent prematurely (just without a closing)

and now that's just making my anxiety worse

and im spiraling

spiraling

spiraling

spiraling spiraling spiraling spiraling spiraling spiraling spiraling spiraling spiraling spiraling

...

maybe i should just go to bed

''what if my writing isn't good eno--'' what if it's a reflection of your soul. what if it has a place in this world. what if you write it anyway

i finally got my peace back and it is wonderful

there's nothing like peace after cacophony softness after pain it prickles until it doesn't , even when it still feels heavy afterward . nothing matters anymore , but it's the release that lets me say that it doesn't burn so much now & the sky's a giant screensaver , clouds drifting past to remind you the world's alive with you , & there is still beauty in the distraught . yes , freedom is the liberation from suffering , but it is also a heart opening up again trying to receive all the love that wants to come in .