Broken Heart

Dizzily she stood,

talking in her head

to someone who didn’t exist

outside the confines of a disaster,

where second hand hurt

unravels around her.

Hands that aren’t hers hold tight to a plan

her body is lost,

taken by a man with an inflated idea of

the things he can take.







Silk Girl

I pull silk from between my thighs,

painfully replaying the female experience.

Every cry and shout heard plainly on my chest.

All the while, on the cliffs of my hips,

A woman swings her legs over the edge

dangles her future and flirts with trouble.

I want to pull her back from the edge,

To tell her not to bet away what’s been given to her.

Legs still swinging she whispers out to an endless valley,

“This is necessary”.

Sewn Up

Not all men,

but oh so many

take things that aren’t theirs.

No, not just take, they pop the seams of sewn up beauty.

Seams that scream “stay out!”,

Seams that scream, “I have spent years building this body that so reverently holds my soul

So delicately guards my heart, do not touch this temple.”




Threads unravel,

They fall at our feet in a pile of stunned chaos.

We are talking loudly but she can’t hear us,

too busy talking in her head to a man who doesn’t belong,

doesn’t belong outside the confines of greedy disaster.

He has no place in the land of thriving bodies,

hips and legs and thighs,

and all the womanly curves that carve a women into something so much more

than man,

that carve a being so capable, so wise,

so fearful of the vulnerability that we have grown tired of hiding.

Over and over we rebuild each other,

tighten back up the seams,

patch up the tears,

re attach buttons,

but it is never perfect, there will always be signs that someone has been here,

that someone has taken what would never be theirs.

And so my first heartbreak came

in the form of second-hand hurt,

and a heavy blank door,

closed on a chapter we will never forget.