Wholeness

Called forth by a voice that has not been silenced, just shushed.  Scratchy wool rubbing up against silky skin begins to feel like wires.  They dig in.

Unfurling and unraveling, crimson ribbons glide out of blackened depths.  Swampy and murky, a long hidden cesspool with a life of its own.  Creatures in your domain but not yours.  Why are you not afraid?

Fingertips gone, talons sharp as steel blades in their place, they speak in deadly swirls.  Gentle waves of hair slither as venomous snakes.  Those crimson ribbons now drip with blood at the end of a beautifully lethal whip.  You know it will whistle when it is yielded.

You are not only this.  But you are this.

Can you feel the blood those talons could draw, the life that could be shredded, eviscerated? Can you see the fear inspired here?  Silence reigns but it is no longer yours.  

Safety.  Freedom.  Winds whisper to you, teasing you with tales of things you thought you would never have.  Protection.  Power.

Holding and hiding up until now, the stars and soil are now too bright and too rich to be ignored.  The heavens sparkle as jewels in the black earth at your feet.  The forest tells you to fly and fall, not to choose.

Enjoy the silence that is not yours.  As nails and hair return, they are marked.  You are marked.  Your nails are blood red.  Crimson ribbons weave through your hair.  You are always and never only this.  

Who are you Woman?

A large silver mirror, simple and stark, holds the reflection of a woman reflecting. Reflecting on how she began - petite and curious, heart open and pure, here for reasons that had little to do with her. On how she continued - steadfastly but painfully.  Brave and courageous perhaps but with hollow gains and no peace. Grinding her teeth while being pleasing and pleasant.  Being a nice girl, saying yes when yes was rarely want she wanted.  Always prey and never safe. 

Will you continue be that woman you were raised to be?  Can you remain a taller and older version of the girl, quiet desperation clawing at you from the inside, a hungry ghost haunted by insatiable cravings for approval, love, and validation that never arrive, never fill?  Not a woman, just a girl living on an endless loop dressed up like an adult.  But grown up enough, lived through enough to now be living with the deep knowing that any pursuit from this place leads to heartache and more emptiness.  This castle will never be safe.  Its walls are damp and dank with the violence and terror of decades past.  

And yet she is not any less you nor any less valuable for all that she has been.  She is simply no longer what you can be.  Literally.  Most of the pieces that made her what she is no longer exist, except in memory. And those that do remain no longer serve.  Can you honor her and allow her passing?  Can you let the smoke and sparks of what burns away in the funeral pyre leave a celestial body, a constellation of all that she was for you to see in any night sky, even in the underworld where the blackest sky is only a memory you hope to see again?  Give her constellation a name that is pure and strong and remember her as such.

Outside the castle now, dense forest calls.  What woman will you be?  What kind of woman can live in the wild?  A woman whose voice sings true, from sweet songs of devotion to rallying battle cries.  A woman whose sword is weighty with the justness and discernment that reside in its blade.  A woman with a deep and wild river that runs forever inside her, serene or churning, but always alive and moving.  A woman whose fire burns for herself first and foremost, light and heat landing only upon the worthy and often only within.  A woman whose strength and sovereignty gift her with the possibility of sweet, aching vulnerability and endless support she does not have to source herself.  

Silver mirror left in the castle, the reflection holds, even in the darkest forest.  She sees herself in the eyes of the wild creatures come to bear witness to what has been and what will be.  In their solemn eyes, she sees the darkness holding her from below and the light illuminating her from above.  Suspended and grounded between stars and soil, crown, sword and wings her birthright.  Whole unto herself.  That is the woman you will be. 

Go into the forest tonight.  Burn what must go and let it be nourishment for the soil, bless its season and harvest and then rest.  Gather your gifts, unknown until now.  Leave the forest the woman you were meant to be. 

The knowing of darkness

No stars in this night sky, the moon forever dark.  Tides run on their own as does my blood.

You’ve pulled me close.

Fight rises in me, fire and white hot rage. I struggle, push, squirm, but I am no match for your strength.  I have never been more ineffectual.  Powerless.  My fire sears only me.

Surrender then.  On the other side of freeze, collapse.  Blood returns to my center and pools there, extremities are no longer needed.  Not here.

Aware but not awake, I feel warm sweet lips brush across mine.  You’ve pulled me close.  To embrace me, not kill me.

The end of opposites

Shimmering and sinuous, wrapping up around your spine, a snake you do not fear - the only one you do not fear.

And speaking of fear, how is it that you have always been the hunted, never the hunter?

But back to that snake, what is she doing here?  She calls for parts of you to be danced, now.  How odd to be dancing when the music is screeching and you are alone.  You feel your way beneath the screeching, seek a pulse to follow.  All you need is a pulse.

You find the answer in that quiet space between breaths, the one that waits and listens.

Are you flying or falling?  Can you be both?  Not do both, be both.  Be star and soil.

In you

Black earth so old and deep its minerals sparkle in the dark night, their nourishment the only light to be seen here.  Only perceptible out of the corner of your eye, it disappears if you look straight at it.

No permission or access granted, not to this place.  Sacred and solitary, this terrain welcomes none but you.  An invader then, ruthless and cold, merciless and relentless.  You choke on shock, your own claws grown feral rip and shred at the very essence of you for hope of a breath.  It does not come.

Revived but not renewed, you review the dénouement of your own expiration.  You find a note written with the blood of your wounds.

This season is one of violence and brutality, you feel their echo still, their bruises and gashes landmarks on you.  An echo so strong, your teeth rattle with resonance.

Alive still, you can believe the intent was not malicious.  This violence and brutality are just a stage, the place where this ballad will be sung.  You let them whisper to you in the fading echo, you listen.

Ever in character, they ask brutal questions.  What would it take for you to soften your edges around my brutality?  To sink back and down into your darkness and your silence when faced with my violence?  To surrender to the harsh tones of my echo? To cherish the relief you feel when I am gone knowing you only get to feel it because I was here? 

Bluebeard

Draping, sweeping branches hanging low to create a hushed canopy of safety and secrecy just for you. Only dirt on this ground, no grass - the shade is too permanent, too effective.  But you like it here anyway.

Inside that house though, the one behind the tree, you've seen the door to the locked room and you've seen the key bleed on more than one occasion.  There is no safety there.

Cartoons on tv, an open cereal box, a stack of napkins, a dainty teacup that can't be put in the dishwasher because the flowers were painted by a skilled hand. You see these on the counter next to clenched fists holding a rage you cannot fathom.  Your neck could be inside those fists, he wants it there.  You know this just like you know that teacup can't go in the dishwasher.  Black shadowed eyes on a face that seems to heave.  Angry spittle flying, those eyes drill a lifetime of hate right into you.

What do you do when you meet Bluebeard in real life?  Just a child, you run for the hills, you have the good sense to be terrified of the void you see in those black eyes.  You saw the skeletons stacked behind the door the minute you walked into the house.  The whip of darkness in that void reaches for you, you feel the blood before see it, but still you run.  You're still running.

Hunt this

The napkin goes here, the wine glass there.  Proper ways of doing things.  Pretty is as pretty does.  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.  You are what you do, not who you are.

Cobwebs that have collected more than dust line the walls of this cave.  Grime and filth have covered anything worth anything, masked it all.

A hum of pleasure, yes pleasure, seeps out from your throat as you put that mask on.  Wearing it for a ball is very different from having it on your face and thinking it was you. You take out your favorite dress, the one that makes you want to dance, and you wear it with the mask.  You feel the snake in you rise and unfurl, black as night with silver eyes, moving you, dancing you.  You are art in this mask, and not the tragic kind.

You've stumbled upon a treasure hunt.  A bold and bloody trail of wicked and wild gems awaits.

If there's only one thing

Twisting, seething, breathing darkness fills unfamiliar skies.  No landmarks, no signs, no friendly strangers who might offer directions.  The only light is the lantern someone's friend's sister swears is here but that you can't see yet.

Standing still seems like asking for trouble so you move, you imagine there's music and you dance in the darkness.  Serpentine, swirling, swaying as you feel the darkness whisper its secrets to you.

You realize you've been here before.  You know this place, even though you don't.  Where time is on a vertical axis and everything exists at once.  When you existed before you existed and after you're gone.

You also realize you know nothing about what you can do, no idea what you are capable of.  Your hands are instruments you don't know how to play yet.