With the Guillotine Down
I am a broken-headed woman, holding heartache in my hands.
I am not trying to be pretty.
What use is mascara with the guillotine down?
I am not the story they have made of me
I am not the story they have made of me
From the small slice
They got off their blade:
Whore.
Selfish.
Ungrateful.
Fake.
Stupid.
Not enough.
Too much.
I can write different words.
They got off their blade:
Whore.
Selfish.
Ungrateful.
Fake.
Stupid.
Not enough.
Too much.
I can write different words.
Tell myself new stories until
I believe them.
The Body, a Prayer
I am an exquisitely patterned daughter of loss.
I try not to stir my coffee too fast.
I try not to shush the chattering women.
Hear them as birds about their business.
Let the bee sit on my ring.
Let my morning become our morning.
I do not know what happens next.
We all need to pray.
And we all have different ways.
I pray by my borrowed bed:
May I meet the moment without seeking to over determine it.
May I sink into the center of this swelling broken and be healed.
The Body, a Prayer
I am an exquisitely patterned daughter of loss.
I try not to stir my coffee too fast.
I try not to shush the chattering women.
Hear them as birds about their business.
Let the bee sit on my ring.
Let my morning become our morning.
I do not know what happens next.
We all need to pray.
And we all have different ways.
I pray by my borrowed bed:
May I meet the moment without seeking to over determine it.
May I sink into the center of this swelling broken and be healed.
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