We, the broken- Megha Sood

 

Dreams crushed and pulverized to the core
I walk alone on this path
broken and sore;
this emptiness seeps
loneliness sits neatly in my pores
Silence screams the loudest
at its core;
a flag stripped of its mast
I’m trying to gather the pieces of me
splintered and stuck in
hundreds of soul
faces– known to me
faces I ignore;
I unpluck and unclutch parts of me
lodged in all the bleary hearts
I once loved
to whom I bared my soul;
We, the broken
like a lost piece of the puzzle
always searching
always alone.

–Megha Sood

Inspired by Eric Syrdal and Jessica Nodarse

 

Pretty Skinny – Kristiana Reed

person-801899_1280 (1)

We say skinny

like it’s a swear word.

We blame skinny girls,

ask who ate the skinny girl

and can’t bear the skinny girl

who says anything about her weight.

We’ve branded ribs and collarbones

who didn’t ask to be shown.

We tell them to eat more,

call them twigs, stick-thin

and not flowers pretty enough

for the bees,

because only vultures pick at bones.

I’m not saying skinny

needs to be the new curvy

or vice versa.

I’m asking women and men

and every gender to be a little kinder

to every body.

Everybody has bones and insecurities,

pages of a history

they ripped from their open book

long ago, to be kept and stowed.

I’m asking as a girl

who has always been small

not to chastise me

for the way my elbows poke

when yours don’t.

All we are, is skin and bone

and it shouldn’t matter

how much we show,

keep to ourselves or flaunt

in Instagram posts.

 

I would like to say

I’m skinny or curvy

or fat or thin

without feeling dirty.

I would like to say

I’m a woman who

is learning to love

her body;

the skin and the bones

she has no choice but to be in.

 

We say skinny

when we should say

‘Beauty comes in every shape and size

and it is not for me to decide

if you do or should feel pretty.’

 


 

Kristiana Reed is an English teacher and a writer (in her free time and day dreams.) She is the author of the WordPress blog My Screaming Twenties and she writes about love, her struggle with mental health, survival and hope. She is currently in the middle of producing Between the Trees, her debut anthology, and writing her first novel.  

Rebirth – Megha Sood

“A scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.”
― Chris Cleave, Little Bee

gaston-roulstone-441678-unsplash.jpg

You plucked my wings

feather by feather

pulled it out in pieces

from the blades of my shoulder

You can bloody me all you want

shred me into pieces

and rip them into halves

for everyone to see it.

Your hands sanguine with my

seraphic blood

your soul

deeply encumbered.

But you can’t douse the

eternal flame in me

the one which is burning

and giving me the intensity

the light of my being

my aura,

my personality

these wounds will heal

and scars will be formed

that is how the life sustains

that is how life is born.

Photo by Gaston Roulstone on Unsplash

Confessions – Kristiana Reed

daisy-690352_1920

I talk to myself,

no more, no less,

than anybody else

I’m sure.

 

I apply makeup

in the morning

for the people

in my imagination.

In regards to my first

confession, this probably

makes less sense.

What I mean is,

without it I’m invisible

to all things in

fantasy and reality;

so, I wear mascara

in case I bump

into a daydream

or a colleague.

 

When I’m nervous

I enjoy the taste

and texture

of my own skin.

I chew my nails

and their messy,

unmade beds

to the quick.

I grip my shoulders,

wrists and arms

to remind myself

I am real;

an open book

with a pulse,

intimidated by hands

with the intention

to close me.

 

I linger too long

in peoples’ hallways,

on the stairs

and in the dark corners

of my memories,

and I travel through

happiness

like a bullet train

past rolling hills

and the setting sun.

 

I white lie

compulsively

to the people

I love, so as not

to hurt their feelings.

But, what does it say

about me, when

I am so willing

to hide all of me

from the ones

who committed long ago

to greeting me

as I am?

 

I write to myself

too. Poems, speeches

and stories.

Hardly any end up

on paper; neither

printed nor inked.

They exist and

they are gone.

Sweet bubblegum

popped reminders

that I’m not okay

and I am okay,

often, at the same time.


Kristiana Reed is an English teacher and a writer (in her free time and day dreams.) She is the author of the WordPress blog My Screaming Twenties and she writes about love, her struggle with mental health, survival and hope. She is currently in the middle of producing Between the Trees, her debut anthology, and writing her first novel.  

Preyed

 

Whispers penetrate flesh walls,
secrets resound like a melody
within the temple of mind.

A church choir of boys
sing Latin,
a tongue they never understood,
yet made beautiful in spite.

An angelic host of innocence,
perched in perfect rows;
perverse men licking dry lips
conduct harmony, as
chorus echoes in rounds
confined by marble stone
laid by hypocritical hands.

In time holy walls stand,
coffers full and overflowing
while souls remain empty.

Yet pride crumbles the benevolent,
corrupt tongues stumble awkwardly
over the dulled ivory teeth of time.

Stained glass fragments let in truth,
rays of light stream through darkness
reflecting a shattered faith sanctuary
built upon broken bones of man.

 

©Sabrina Escorcio
September 2017

Photo Credit, Sam Webber illustration for “the Priest That Preyed” – New York Times

 

Elements-Megha Sood

First Published in the Writer’s cafe Magazine Issue 13 -“Elements”

shifaaz-shamoon-300079-unsplash.jpg

My soul without the love

an empty poem

Stripped of its beauty

with metaphors

but nothing to compare with.

 

My mind

with it’s tangled thoughts

ricochet between the doubts and the certainty

almost sure of the day

when nothing will begin and everything will end

a journey towards Oblivion.

 

My skin

devoid of the healing touch and showered with the wet empty kisses

you plant every day on my cheeks

it bears marks of time

sensitive to even the pain

when the time shrugs its shoulder

and the moment end

and my skin still waiting

for that healing touch

fervently to suppress that pain.

 

My love

a dream too real

conjured out of thin air

like the magic potion

will heal everything

and that magic elixir

will resurrect me from my darkness

of bone and Ash

my love enough to be real

to be felt with my fingertips

and too surreal

so I can feel the pain

when it leaves my body

gently as it glides

to live in the dimension

separate than mine.

 

My truth

a reality too hard to gulp down

your empty throat

when the reality cuts the dreams

with its serrated ends

and stripped off all its frivolity

it stands here naked

stripped

staring and gazing at you

with its bloodshot eyes

when you feel shameful

to hold it’s gaze.

 

So when the pain sits deep inside my

barren womb

like the dead lilies

knotted and tangled together

like the pain of the stillborn

where time eats time

you try to define

my mind,

my soul,

my skin,

my love,

my truth,

/my elements/

pulling and molding it together

to give it a shape and a form

and you realize

how wrong you were all along.

–Megha

Photo by Shifaaz shamoon on Unsplash

Running Home – Kristiana Reed

night-1209938_1920

I’m walking home

holding my house key

pointing down, between

two fingers.

A weapon

 

because the sun has set

the street lamps are on

and I’m a twenty four

year old woman.

I’m wearing boots

jeans and a hoodie

but wonder if the flesh

on my palms

will be cause for a judge

to say she was showing

too much skin.

When he ponders

 

the trauma of a woman

undone; her rage

and her no

not enough. She

should have done more,

she should have worn more,

she should have run faster,

she should have looked

behind her more,

she should

 

have considered

the temptation

of the breath on her lips,

in her lungs and in her blood

more.

 

I’m running home –

praying there won’t

be a monster waiting for me

in the darkness

 

behind my closed

front door.

 


Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is President of FVR Publishing, a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar & Sudden Denouement, and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.