The Staining of Our Souls
Dedication
To every breathlessly talented writer and poet I am fortunate enough to call my friends and companions - you inspire me beyond compare and I am forever grateful for your advice, encouragement, and love. Thank you all so much.
Woman Kings
Oh, the crown cuts deep
into my scalp, bruising with
the weight of words,
of wars,
of worlds.
How can it be divine right if sin
gave it to me?
And yes, my hands still turn
red with their blood late at
night, their screams echoing
through my empty thoughts,
but it makes no difference.
Unbent knees will break.
“Semper fidelis!” they cry out to me.
Always faithful.
As they should be.
As they must be.
Girls Who Run With Wolves
When the night opens up with the glowing
of the moon don’t be surprised when you see
me standing there, neck craned and fingers
curling and uncurling, my eyes as wide
as the moon is large.
For there in the toothpick forests of
pine needles upon needles my empty
heart can drown in peace, filled to the
brim with their howling, their crying, the
raw and the visceral and the based.
There I am the girl you said you always
knew I was - stronger and faster and
never afraid.
Never afraid.
But when I am not there I draw
back into myself, tighter and
tighter, until the paper of my
heart cannot be folded up
anymore.
And their cries start to fade away, receding
like waves that cannot drag me back into
the forest of the sea.
Because of this I know that, despite
everything, the moonlight on my
cheeks will always feel cooler than
the brush of your fingertips.
So don’t be surprised when you still see
me standing there, neck craned and fingers
curling and uncurling, my eyes closed as the
waning moon fades away.
My heart still longs to drown in trees.
Forgive me.