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My bones hold the secrets of who I could have become had I not tucked my rebellion behind a bitten tongue. There is black in my marrow from the rage, a sort of noble rot, I’m sure. I spent my youth in a prison of pretend meekness and dimmed inner light, prostrate to an angry god created to control and punish those who dared find another voice. The meek do not inherit the earth; but the observant , the kind , the strange ones that have the power of the sun locked in their secret heart, carry the whole of the ocean in their thermos.
The quiet men with wills like oak and faces like moonstones.
The clever, the trickster, the daughters with many faces and souls full of all the magic they can swallow, we know the earth hangs in the sky, and is the birthright of no one.
If I had daughters, they would know the universe is the companion of the thoughtful, the kind, and the brave. That no religion demanding the silence of women is valuable,that your body is a temple only to your spirit, and lovers will make offerings freely. Meekness is the lie of weak men and arcane gods who will be forgotten in the footsteps of those who need no masters but the wisdom of a living earth and their own souls .

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Throw your body against the floor of the sky

You will run the world, uncaged and unfettered but still feel as trapped, so long as your heart is still an angry , hungry young thing.

I would know.

My temples have gone shock-white  from fighting my own child-self, with her broad, stubborn shoulders and skinned knees.

We have climbed in the ruins of temples and on mounds of ancient bones, but felt as trapped as canaries in the mouths of temple cats.DSCN0349

 

saturated

The moon drips down into my soul and her light illuminates places and moments  I’ve tucked away for my own protection. In the easy plateau between asleep and fully awake there are memories that can be accessed by my nearly-conscious mind.( or is it my soul, because I believe that’s both a time as well as a place)When I fully wake I am so heavy with the knowledge of my life, dear and bad, I am sure for a minute that I glow, pregnant with silver-blue light.

I’m waking up with my coffee and the moonlight’s fading away, but some little thoughts stick to me.

 

~i am not made for suburbia

~have I been so many different people, so many times that when I sleep my soul splits its self into pieces, only to  reconvene in the morning?

~ i remember where I lost a doll under a couch , a tan/brown overstuffed one in a living room long dismantled, but the moment is forever preserved, screenshotted.