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Tag: broken

Dreams and beasts burning hotter than the stars


She is alone. This has been her fear all along. It is dusk on an open road and mountains and unmoving turbines and the moon.

There are more miles between here and there than she cares to admit. She won’t admit anything. The abandonment. The inadequacy. The wedding that shouldn’t have been. The affair. The family. The abuse. The divorce. The abandonment. The abandonment. The child in her arms that isn’t hers.

There are many beasts that walk these streets – bigger and burning hotter than the stars. The scars on her hands show how busy broken messy busy broken she has kept herself. She has kept herself. To herself. Toward herself. Away from herself. Abandonment. Tired. So tired.

She is alone. Alive but alone and what is living when you can’t hear another heart beating?


I am at home when I am drowning


I am in love with a storm – dark and surly – masquerading as a gentle breeze. It is said that you can’t touch the wind, you can only let it move you. So spread your fingers and let it take you away; it will shift the ground beneath you, it will shake the dust. It will send pieces of you to places you’ve never been.

Let it blow. Bow to its sway.

Do not fear losing yourself. The rain will come in torrents of tears and sadness, looking for light between the clouds. I have learned not to fight the waters as if by struggling I only spur on the turbulence. My body is mostly water; I am one with the flood.

I am at home when I am drowning.

The sound will shatter you. No one will be there to hear the crumbling but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. Be wary of this; there aren’t many who can take the same blow twice. Roll with the punches of thunder. Accept that the wind will be knocked from your lungs; you will be knocked off your feet.

Bandage your bruised ribs. Bind your breasts – chest – and absorb the rumble of rage but do not crack. Do not flash. Do not thrash at the ground which carried you this far.

This storm has me completely surrounded and I am swept up in her chaos. I am no afraid despite the wreckage that will collect in its wake. I am my own storm – my own whip of wind and power – so bow to my sway. Bend with these battering gusts or be broken. Do not simply wait for me to pass through.

Come with me and I will move with you too.

The last time I bled, I did not die




When the waves break at the turn of each blood moon I remind myself that the last time I bled, I did not die. Nor the time before that. Nor the time I took a knife to my arm, nor the time that barbed wire striped my leg. Till today, everything that has made me bleed has not yet killed me.

And although it has not made me stronger, there’s something kind of sneaky-like writing your own destiny into the stars – scars – stars. Definitely stars… Like the gods of sky and that blood moon gave me the chance to fill in the blanks of my own brief chapter.

If I were not made of this flesh that ebbs and flows with red lunar tides, I would think I were immortal, and surely that is something to be afraid of.


On the day I detail the insides of my veins for you… when I pour out my insides for you to wade in my secrets…you tell me that you are drowning, and you want nothing less than to die in my honesty. You say that you would rather live without me.

You asked for it – that messy truth… yet you leave me to bleed out, washing your hands of me with your own honesty. You say it’s a choice… that I can choose… And so I do. I choose to hide from you.

So tell me what you know of trying to peel off your own skin? Tell me what you know of them cutting out your tongue? Now tell me what you know of silence – silence so thick not even thoughts slip through? Tell me what you know of them blaming you?

Haemophiliac. Hypocrite. Hypochondriac. Can you hear the liquid draining from my heart in strings of metaphors? Let these ears and eyes bleed. Taste and see it is not good.


I never owned a red scarf or a red dress. I am a matador; they are bulls. I never want to draw them to myself because we all know what happened before. Those nights. Those hands. Those toys…on the floor.

Sons can be red too. Yet they are far more rarely chosen than daughters… Daughters are picked like ripening rubies from mother nature’s tree. Just like Eve who ate the fruit, so they’re devoured by Adams who claim to hold their energy – claim to be the ribs that made them.

I am that fruit – bursting strawberries – in all the sweetness and mess. I dare you to eat me; I dare you to try and keep down the poison of my blood. The same blood that follows the command of the moon and does not surrender.

I am powerful because I can be broken


I believe that some people were made to break things. I believe that others were just meant to break – to break down – to break apart – to be broken. Like how a child builds a castle made of sand close enough to tempt the ocean waves. The truth is, it was never going to stand but they wait until the water can no longer hold itself back – till it lashes at the structure in swells and still has the nerve to go back and lick the wounds with smaller ripples. I have never seen such joy derived from such destruction. The smile on that child’s face when the walls are torn back to earth like it was his own will that did the breaking.

I am that sandcastle. I am built of things that were never meant to stand. Others have built what they thought would last, filling me with stones and shells. But the waves will come. And they do. And they crash. And they tumble. And they tear down. And they break. They break me. Everyone is a wave waiting to break me. I am made to break – to break down – to break apart – to be broken. I wait.

I wait to be watered down in the most violent way possible like the sea swallows the sand and eventually the child. Everyone is a wave and I do not stand a chance. I do not stand a chance against the man on the corner of the street watching me walk by on my way home. I do not stand a chance against the crowd with gleaming teeth outside the bar I stumble out of. I do not stand a chance against the women I let into my bed with other people’s skin still under their fingernails. I do not stand a chance against myself with my twisted hands and shamed skin made of sand.

I was one of those born with the power to be broken and not to do the breaking. Yes, a power to be broken – that’s a power – a super power even! Can you imagine having to build yourself up after everything has warred against you in hopes of tearing you down? Sometimes they win; sometimes I lose. But I get up again and build, and do not allow myself to crumble until the next wave hits. Power is getting up over and over despite the knowledge that destruction will come.

I am powerful because I can be broken. I am powerful because I do not leave myself this way – I pick myself up every day. I am powerful because I know I have done it myself. I am powerful because, in spite of their best attempts to crush me in the worst way, I do not back down. I am powerful because even though I know I was not built to stand – being made of sand – I plant myself as firmly as I can until they come. I am powerful because I do not break them in the same way. I am powerful because I have been broken and I continue to stand.