They told me to write a poem,
one to celebrate the art of rhymes,
structures and creating
something
beautiful.
I’ve always hated the ritual
of celebration,
its infatuation done wrong.
My poem was awful,
shameful and
downright
dismal.
They told me to write
something beautiful.
My body was my blank canvas,
and I wrote the words
to my life.
I carved out the paths,
echoed out my tales,
told them something
beautiful.
I wrote them lines
of dreams and
stanzas of nightmares.
They did tell me to
write something
beautiful.
My writing skewed as I
recalled my past,
and felt the tears
of regret stain
the page.
They tried to wipe
them away,
but it was something
beautiful.
I recalled every bruise
and scar,
I pointed to my
stretch marks and
they were beautiful.
They asked me why
I was doing this.
I couldn’t answer as
my words stopped in my
throat,
and the past tried to choke
me.
They told me to
write another,
but that would be
like taking a lover.
Wrong, and betraying.
I couldn’t turn my back
on myself
again.
I wrote until 3am
and didn’t stop
until my hands ached.
They did tell me to write.
They told me to
write a
poem to celebrate.
I wrote a poem to celebrate
all those who survive.
hi Rachel
Your poetry is beautiful. I live in Brighton and am organising a night for the women’s centre. If you’re in the area and would be interested in performing please message me or tweet me @jesswoodfall
take care x
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