Happy Halloween and Today’s Prompt

Since today is Halloween and life and death are in balance, I thought I’d put for the following prompt to you:

What do you want others to learn from your life?

Write a eulogy from the perspective of the lives you have touched. These perspectives and insights can be individuals who are already present in your life, or those who have yet to enter it. 

Happy Halloween! Stay safe and please for the love of god, steer clear from racist or offensive costumes. 

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How to make love to a survivor 

Never ask to see the scars

Like the site of a burned down house

They never want to return to the wreckage

And remember what was lost

They will want you to read between the lines

Of every page

Find a story

They don’t want to tell

They will open like a book

With a prologue they choose to skip

The chapters

Rewritten

Their bodies the place to smear ink

Rip to shreds

And add to the fire

They use to warm themselves
You’ll say you’ll go slow

Now mean it

When they stop in mid sentence

To curl up petals around their raw hearts

Do not turn your back to their spring 

It is hard to feel the sun

When every memory of heat 

Awakens the burn

happy new poem Monday!

Have you written anything new today?

Here’s what I came up with…

Note: the quote is from this very interesting article: 

Cronus: 

“In the 1990s, scientists found the first clues that cells from both sons and daughters can escape from the uterus and spread through a mother’s body. They called the phenomenon fetal microchimerism, after the chimera, a monster from Greek mythology that was part lion, goat and dragon.”

The babies lived in my belly
Fed from me

Champagne blood

And moist flesh

Calm

And dangerous

Warm

And wicked

Like the pause before the scream

Or the heavy hole of my cursed mouth

The place that swallowed them

Like soft rocks 

splashed and sinking 

Until they no longer played melodies

Inside me.

Their hearts stopped

But I never stopped feeling them move

Their bodies imprinting their messages

Only my organs could read

The Library

A tree is cut down

And made into paper.

That paper is printed

And made into books

Mathematically 

If a=b than b=a 

and therefore

That tree and that book

Are the same

We are the same

We are the same whether we have stood in the same forest for decades

Or were cut truncated and shipped across countries

If we were sliced in pieces

And only made into something

To hold up others

Made into something

Only for others to burn

The same

Whether our branches were bent from the snow and ice from our struggling sapling beginnings

Or we were able to sprout strong

In the sun

What we have become is only the consequence

Of circumstance 

Inside

We are still warm 

We are still wood

And no matter how many times we may splinter

We still feel for our roots

(As amputated and charred as they may be)

Or still strive to bend our powerful bodies

From fragile pages

Into strong, ever-growing stories 

Even if only to whisper through the ink that has been inflicted upon us

“I am here”

Today’s Poem

Trigger warning: violence against women. 

I read a horrific story about a woman who was murdered by her boyfriend in an unspeakable and incredibly violent way. (Seriously on the level of Jack the Ripper) I do not recommend seeking this story out, as it has still affected me over a week after reading about it, but I needed to address the idea of this violent crime and it’s horrific nature being hands down an issue of hatred of women and their bodies. Here is something I needed to write, as I need this woman’s murder talked about. I need people to see this violence as a symptom of a systematic social problem. Misogyny at its most gruesome.

The greatest fear a man has 

Is that a woman will laugh at him.

The greatest fear a woman has

Is that a man will kill her

For laughing. 

That a man will kill her

For ignoring him

That a man will kill her

For walking down the street

For saying no

For saying someone else’s name

That she deserves to be cut to pieces 

That her choices are only 

To be owned

Or destroyed

When the hands who played melodies 

On her bones

So easily clenched their fists

And forced their way inside

How simple it was to turn love making

To murder

How easy it was to search for himself

In her blood 

And come up

Empty handed