Rebirth – Megha Sood

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

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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

And how the body heals-Megha Sood

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And how the body teaches itself to heal

to get up 

shed off the scars

the sullen time has left behind

rub off all the cobwebs 

of the stale vapid moments

nesting in you for time forever 

taking shelter in your mind

feasting on your memories

like maggots

and sucking off the light 

that was once so divine

 

And the how the body teaches itself to recover

by crying profusely 

pouring out the tears

chaos of the lonely soul 

that deep lamentation 

that once gone sour

and how it springs that fountain of elixir

stemming from the depths of your heart

to cleanse you

once again

and to baptize your sins

marking you as a nubile

a soul apart

 

And how the body fight and shuts itself down

cocooned within itself 

sitting cross-legged in the dark 

hunched by the pain of the 

deep remorse

and sitting in complete silence 

mute and numb to the core

those screech and 

the screams are falling on the 

deaf and dead ears 

when the cacophony 

gets too loud to hear

and your mind plays soliloquy 

with its core

 

And how the body preaches itself 

that’s it OK to love and heal once again

let the old scars heal 

for the new ones to 

be born again.

The body never forgets to heal

even though we 

forget to remind it.

–Megha

Healing-Megha Sood

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My bloated thoughts

in my withered body

swimming

through the turbid emotions

unperturbed

unmoved

un-oscillating

dead and stale

lying motionless

in the stench of the old memories

I sit and sip time

my haggard face

and the crestfallen soul

carries those

inundated tales of pain

through the thin stale air in the room

carrying the silvery dust

through that sliver of sunshine

and the Brownian dance

which tangles in my thoughts and

titillate my senses

Till I choke

and purge

regurgitate

on my welting soul

and wait for

one more

day of

the silvery moonlight

to heal those

scars.

Photo by _Javarts_ on Unsplash

Bruised Knees-Rachel Finch

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[Poem by Rachel Finch]
My knees have known Bruises.
A spectrum of colour staining my skin as a reminder.
Pigments of who I am, altered at their hands.
Fists clenched to strike, clench, imprint.
Each stain a bolt, a language seeping into my essence; teaching.
My ribs have known bruises.
Painted, I am every female ancestor face first in the dirt.
My throat has known bruises.
I never felt so transparent as I did wearing lesions beneath a high collar.
Fading, my shell returns, burying the real wounds beneath it.
But I am wiser.
Healed I am every female ancestor face towards the Sun.


Rachel is a writer that speaks from her soul, expressing her trauma and strength through her work. She lives with Mental Illness, refusing to let it define her and is mother to four courageous children. In her free time she volunteers to support people through their own experiences of abuse, mental illness and recovery at Bruised But Not Broken.

Bruised Knees-Introducing Rachel Finch

cf2ba29a9904c00c58789cc11d478975
[Poem by Rachel Finch]
My knees have known Bruises.
A spectrum of colour staining my skin as a reminder.
Pigments of who I am, altered at their hands.
Fists clenched to strike, clench, imprint.
Each stain a bolt, a language seeping into my essence; teaching.
My ribs have known bruises.
Painted, I am every female ancestor face first in the dirt.
My throat has known bruises.
I never felt so transparent as I did wearing lesions beneath a high collar.
Fading, my shell returns, burying the real wounds beneath it.
But I am wiser.
Healed I am every female ancestor face towards the Sun.

Rachel is a writer that speaks from her soul, expressing her trauma and strength through her work. She lives with Mental Illness, refusing to let it define her and is mother to four courageous children. In her free time she volunteers to support people through their own experiences of abuse, mental illness and recovery at Bruised But Not Broken.