we are tied up in each others wounds and wombs.
flesh and blood and soil and salt.
suspended and held in each others wombs until the time comes to lay the bricks on the clay
and birth another into the world.
queens and priestesses.
maidens. mothers. crones.
we carry the world within our blood and bones.
the stories of innocence and freckles. of carefree summer days with dresses that blow in the wind along with our wishes.
the stories of scarlet between our thighs and the monsoons that soon would come.
the stories of lovers upon us.
the stories of the road.. of running away or searching for.
the stories of our passions, desires, cravings…
the secrets we hold on our ruby lips and tongue.
the births of our babies, and of ourselves.
the deaths of a thousand facades, and the births of many more.
fire and hearth
heart and home.
the one that holds the power of healing.. and holds it all together.
one after another, they descend through spiral maze. ready to rise up and rebel
casting crowns to the flame
orphaned and owning their keep.
keeping the cauldron bubbling.
my mama was a river of love.
healing the wounds and worlds of the past
carving out the sweetest of spaces for this girl to stretch and grow
doing the undone work of those before, so this little girl needn’t do so much.. just dream.
and so she dreamt. and became. and grew.
and so she believed she could… and she did.
and so she never questioned her worth, her value, her love.
and though there are cracks in her foundation, they are merely cosmetic..
influences of the fucked rough edges of society that doesn’t value women.
easy to fill with rose petals and salty sea air.
and so this girl carries the matriarch in her hips as she stirs the pot to feed her family.
the matriarch finds herself in the tone of her tongue, the length of her fingers, the green of her eyes.
the matriarch finds herself deep in the womb yet again, nestled in the ovaries of the next queen. the priestess.
the maiden, making mothers.. making crones.