Chamomile Tea

The sun offers such brilliant light

Yet, it’s warmth burns at vulnerable skin.

Those who are unable to bear the beauty,

Are left charred and shaken.

There are those that anchor the star,

Cursing its radiance and unbreakable strength.

They know only the heat of its rage

And the sting of its radiant rays.

They forget the warmth of the sun when it wakes,

The gentle sea of comfort that washed over the body

As the night fades away into the colours 

That leaves artists in tears of shame.

Those who embody the spirit of the sun

Are indomitable and wild,

They are vivid and unrelenting,

Beautiful in a way that one can barely comprehend. 

Wild eyes that light of the night,

A nature that brazen burns through adversity. 

A simple smile turns over everything you knew,

Quenching a thirst that parched one for years.

For just a moment of their time,

You are left bewildered and charmed.

To hear their laugh,

You are haunted and hungry.

To love them is a blessing,

To ache for them is a curse.

You can not tame the sun,

You can only worship,

Admire,

Cherish,

And when the time comes, 

You can reach out with timid fingers,

I’ve always struggled with math. 

All the numbers, formulas, and shapes were too much.

As a child, I could cry during my tests,

I never handed in a paper that wasn’t drizzled with wet marks. 

They told me that there was something wrong with my brain,

That I was slow.

Slow? I taught myself to read and write before I was five years old.

Slow? I was fascinating my friends with grand tales from my imagination.

SLOW? I didn’t even know what those words meant, but it filled me with rage.

The more I heard that word thrown around, the angrier I became.

They told me that there was something wrong with my brain,

That I was aggressive without reason.

Without reason? I was eight years old when my foster mother called me a selfish bitch.

Without reason? I was only nine when I was called the ‘bastard of that slut’

Without REASON? I was twelve when I was told I had to find a place to stay, 

Because my foster mother was visiting, and she’d attack me on sight. 

They told me that there was something wrong with my brain,

That my attraction to women was disgusting.

Disgusting? I was only fifteen when you stopped using my name in favour of ‘dyke’.

Disgusting? I was sixteen and paying your bills while you were drunk on the couch.

DISGUSTING? You called it ‘cute’ when I confided in you that an older guy was stalking me.

They told me that there was something wrong with my brain,

Yet never taking a single ounce of blame.

Yes, I’m bad at math.

Yes, I have an attitude.

Yes, I like women.

There’s nothing wrong with my brain and there sure as hell is nothing wrong with me.

Perhaps ask instead why you’re incapable of loving me for all my flaws,

Embracing my cracks and blemishes,

Instead of pushing me into a perfect shape until I am a form I no longer recognize.

They told me that there was something wrong with my brain,

This poem was inspired by many factors, such as the constant violent crime against women. While writing this poem, I listened to A Lotta True Crime by Penelope Scott. The anger in the song is a drop in the barrel of the rage that women feel towards the world that turned their back. Screams in the night are masked with the voices that tell women they shouldn’t have dressed like that, they shouldn’t have left the house that day, they shouldn’t have fought back, they shouldn’t have smiled at him. Everything is the fault of the woman and never the disgusting beast that can’t control its animalistic urges; if you voice this, the beast will turn on you, bearing its teeth and claws, threatening to eat your being and spit you to the ground, stomping on your corpse while searching for the next little girl to maim.

Bring the broken and the scared.

Gather their shattered hearts in your scarred hands.

Deliver them to the roots of the tree; worry not as they sink into the soil and join the earth.

This is not a punishment, not something to fear.

As they become one with the world, they will heal and incubate. 

Wounds are tended and scars are healed.

From within they are born anew:

Some become leaves, beautiful and ever-changing.

Some acorns who will grow with the one with whom they were reborn.

Some will become birds, taking to the skies; while they may be gone, their song will always remain.

Bring the broken and the scarred, deliver them to the roots of the tree.

The one in the center of the woods, the heart of the forest, the guardian of all;

Here, have a paintbrush.

Hold it firm and draw upon my body.

Outline my form, curves, muscles and flaws.

Smear out the areas you wish to erase and circle which you crave.

Treat my skin as a template before you switch to the blade.

Hold firm as you carve along the lines, my body falling to pieces.

Use my hair as twine, my bones as broth, my eyes for medicine, and my heart as you please.

Use my uterus for your future sons and my skin to cloth yourself.

Waste no part of my being, but don’t forget to silence my voice;

One night, while preparing for bed, I found inspiration. As someone who struggled with various health issues (both mentally and physically), I have several medications and steroids that I need to be able to function day to day. It’s become a ritual to sit on my bed and start some music while I count out all the pills that I need and grab some of the inhalers I need to use. As I was doing this, I realized that I was softly whispering which pill was for which illness – something I had never noticed – and I thought, wouldn’t this make an interesting poem?

So, I gathered all my medication down, and I wrote what each pill was for, along with short imagery-based words that reminded me of the feelings that these pills helped me overcome. From there, I went deep into how it felt to be subjected to the various illnesses. Along with writing the various ways they made me feel, I also made sure to add a tag line of the most common things I’ve heard from people about my illnesses, such as working out for depression or taking deep breaths for asthma (Yes, while having an asthma attack, someone just told me to take deeper breaths, when my lungs were collapsing.)

Take 2 daily for anxiety.

To combat the feeling of claws digging into your chest, red-hot tails gripping at your heart. Squeezing tight enough that you fear your heart is going to explode, and when you try to cry out, your voice is lost in the depths of your throat, silencing you with only your trembling body for comfort. Every sound is too loud, and every movement is an assault against your being. Safety is a myth saved for those of the neurotypical variety. 

But have you tried just ignoring those feelings, we all get nervous. 

Take 2 a day for depression

To hold back the crushing waves of overwhelming dread. Building a solid wall as the waves break against the brick, slowly wearing it down as it does to your self-image and personal identity. If you don’t tend to the wall, cracks will form and the water will trickle through, soon forming a swift river that sweeps you off your feet and submerges you into the darkness of the unknowing. Struggling against the stream may allow you a breath or two, but you will forever be drowning.

But have you tried taking a walk or working out? 

Take two nightly for PTSD

To help sedate the onslaught of night terrors that gnaw away at your sanity, causing you to thrash wildly in your sleep and to see monsters lurking in every shadow. To prevent you from returning to a frightened child when a voice is raised or a glass is smashed. To numb the feeling of helplessness that causes you to tremble and seek safety in isolation.

But that was the past, can’t you just get over it?

Take one nightly for bipolar disorder.

To prevent the chaotic storm that thunders in your mind and sends electricity through your body. Your skin feels too tight, your thoughts are too loud, and every action is controlled by your uncontrollable emotions. A simple task can end in tears of frustration or distraught screams. Your emotions are comparable to the winds of a hurricane, with the same force, wearing you down with each strong breeze until you fear yourself. Your vicious anger and the depths of depression you fall within endlessly, time and time again. The whirlwind tempts you to claw at your own skin and try to fly for a time, if it promises a peaceful sleep.

But have you tried praying? God heals all.

Take two puffs daily for asthma.

To strengthen your lungs as you have the equal to a single working organ, to assist with the fact your windpipe is smaller than the average, and you are left gasping for breath after tasks others do with ease. To help the nights you wake up choking for air as someone rubs your back and tells you to put your arms over your head. They tell you to take a deep breath, but you can barely take in a gulp. To lessen the nights spent in the ER, hooked up to machines through IVs and electricity as you wear a plastic mask and breath in the dry, bitter smoke and feel the needles from the steroids pumped directly into your veins.

But have you tried yoga?

Black clouds

Fill my head.

Lighting strikes,

Behind my eyes,

As rain

Streams down my cheeks.

Thunder echos

From my mouth.

Wind blows

Past my ears.

The storm

Rages in my soul

Find me

In the eye

With a smile

I’ve always been looking for my worth,

In the eyes of my parents,

In the arms of those I loved,

In the various bottles of different shapes.

I sought my worth like a pirate

Seeks out treasure on a frayed map.

I crawled over mountains,

Waded through seas,

Fought through storms,

All in the hopes of finding my worth.

I found it.

In an unlikely place

In a familiar form.

A mother that I have always longed for,

Reached out with loving arms,

Embracing me to her bosom,

Back to where I was born.

There are many words for her:

Tellus, Great Mother, Gaia, Terra.

She is from which we are all born,

And to whom we all return as we perish.

I found my worth in her arms and in her soil.

My eyes that have shed too many tears,

My skin that has been bruised too often,

My body that carried too much weight,

Will be of worth to her with each passing day.

For every bit of me that decays,

Becomes nutrients for the thriving world.

Bugs delight within the cavity of my body,

While scavengers fill their stomachs with my flesh.

Fungus thrives from my minerals,

While the soil awaits to break me down for the final time.

As my final breath leaves,

To provide for the trees,

I fall asleep with a smile.

Drawings of angels always depict a woman, a lithe and delicate form to admire.

A woman so slight and soft would be called an angel, visual perfection.

I do not disagree, though I often wonder, how do they not see what I see?

She lacks a face round as a cherub and skin as pale as ivory,

Instead, a jaw so handsome and skin worn from work and toil.

She glistened with sweat down her golden skin,

Traveling over every muscle with such loving care,

How I long to be that drop,

To make maps of every curve and tenderly touch every surface.

You give the image you would taste like honey,

But my charred hands would soil the glow you carry without shame.

I envy every fabric you wear, 

Every drink that passes your lips,

Every breath you take,

As it all can hold and know you in ways I never can,

For I want to engulf and indulge you,

Your mother was such a wonderful woman.

I didn’t know slapping a child was worthy of praise.

She was so loving and gentle.

I had a restraining order by the time I was ten.

Your mother put everyone first.

She punched a cop who was blocking her from attacking me.

She had such a warm soul.

When I was eight, she abandoned me at 2 am on the streets.

Everyone misses your mother so much.

I know can sleep without double-checking the locks on my doors and windows.

You must miss her so much.

Water, water all around and not a drop to drink.

Once you’re in your twenties, they expect so much.

You should be married by now, tending to a home

Where is the sound of children playing?

Why are you wasting your youth with academics?

If you wait too long, you’ll be old goods.

Men aren’t going to wait forever

You’re not gay, you just haven’t met the right man.

You’re just confused

Gandhi once said 

There is enough for the world’s needs,

Not the world’s greed.

He believed that this beautiful earth

Could provide for all, 

Yet the greed would sully 

The giving nature of our Gaia.

As a child I didn’t know these words,

But I knew the lesson behind them.

I knew the weight of the unfortunate,

As my little brother whined from hunger,

And my aunt looked away in guilt.

I knew we had no money,

Only aching and despair.

I knew too much for my age,

I held knowledge beyond my years,

And skills not meant for a child.

Nimble fingers that learned to open doors

That were meant to be sealed,

Quiet steps

That kept me from waking the monsters

That lay asleep in the bedrooms beyond my own.

I used those quick fingers,

And silent movements

To feed him 

During those long nights.

My Aunt never asked,

She simply smiled

And pat my head.

We will all pay for our sins

At the end of the road,

But for now,

My childhood was the —

Scent of pine needles.

Feeling of leaves beneath my feet.

Taste of sunny rain during the heat of summer.

Sight of fireflies dancing between the tall grass.

Sound of cicadas as they sang their ancient songs.

My adolescence was the —

Scent of beer freshly opened.

Feeling of ink against my skin.

Taste of freedom as I slipped out the window.

Sight of fireworks against the black sky.

Sound of sirens as we ran and laughed.

My adulthood is the —

Scent of the dirty dishes.

Feeling of overwhelming dread.

Taste of morning mouth after oversleeping.

Sight of the work to be done.

Sound of the bank account dwindling down.

My dreams are the —

Scent of honeysuckles during bloom.

Feeling of wind rushing through my hair.

Taste of the sweetest ambrosia.

Sight of the ones I love.

Sound of those loud voices shifting to a whisper

Warm winds,

Clear skies.

A sign of a better time.

People flock out to the world,

Shedding away their layers.

Skin exposed to the sun begins to tint,

Laying upon its loving kiss.

Denim shorts that cover just enough,

Shirts that are trying their best,

As the temperature rises,

So do spirits.

Bonfires,

Dancing beneath the stars,

Her lips tasting of sea-salt,

Our feet covered in sand,

As we dance,

We laugh,

Little girls are like daisies, 

Sweet and delightful.

Little boys are like ivy,

Lively and ever pushing.

I am a dandelion. 

I was in high school when I was told

That I looked like a man in a skirt.

Something broke inside me.

Just like something in his face as I withdrew my fist

I tried to live as the perfect daisy.

Seen and not heard,

I loathed it all.

As a child I was wild and free

Running too fast and laughing too loud.

I was often told I was a little boy

Despite being someone’s daughter.

I was too loud, too messy, too untethered to femininity.

I acted like ivy and carried on without remorse 

I was happy to live in the in-between

Because I knew nowhere else

Until my body began to change, and I was no longer a child.

I wasn’t born a boy

And yet

I wasn’t enough to be a girl

Nothing is all I ever seemed to be. 

Never beautiful enough to be a daisy

Never strong enough to be ivy.

Gender is determined during eighteen and twenty-four months.

I’m of twenty-eight years, and I am still a weed,

Not flourishing in a picket fenced garden,

Or scaling a brick wall.

I am birthed within the crack of concrete,

2 teaspoons of shared interest

1 pinch of shared secrets

3 cups of laughter

1 tablespoon of tears

4 dashes of affection

2 cups of diced love

½ cup of inside jokes

1 cup of nighttime giggles

2 oz of unforgettable memories

2 shakes of heartbreaking fights

Dashes of I love you for taste