abuse-writingasitcomes-Potus-Scotus
When I tore into his eyes with my defiant mind,
they were the deepest hazel; still soft and round – almost moist.
His dark stares had a reach, renowned to grab me.
My pale hands, soft, glistening, regimentally
moisturised and glassier than its dark history
or darting hiss, tried to smash the toxic air.
My hair, once silken with titian’s wondrous sheen,
separated easily – torn from my metaphorical scalp –
and farce – as my life was smashed away from my skeletal base.
Then the blood soaked rains would suddenly flow
like blood, muddied, but largely still broken.
It reminded me how fragile we are.
How fragile we are. But more, how fragile we are perceived to be.
When struggles, even when redemptive, are slain,
and even though my fists, glassed and ready
are armed, they are too pristine…
and guilt free. God help us all against a default society and
patriarchy.
On and on, the rage goes on, and on and on this bias
rocks our soul – but blood and flesh belong. Like the sun
and the burning evening skies sat bold and ready…
to glow with belief is not is a fragile state.
As it Comes 