Mourning the Loss of the Illusion of Self.
We are all in mourning for the journey we have been on to get ourselves here. In this wonderful and amazing moment in time, on our timelines, in her-story.
Sung Home: Chapter Six. {fiction}
While on these expeditions, if there was any leftover booty, we brought it home to Mama, preparing it for her to show off our newest cooking skills.
My Mother Is Not a Feminist.
What my sisters and I take ownership for, our own happiness, my mother didn’t. Not in the same way. Not in a radical way. She distracted herself.
Send in the Shadow Creatures to Drain My Sadness.
Then they move. All at once. Descending upon me in a swarm of blind desire and pure hunger. Vampirically draining the sadness from my veins.
Frankford: A Word Picture in Black and White.
Churches are everywhere. Black gates block the entrances. Care for the stranger, your brother... but first go down the block to another church.
The Path of Old Souls.
Old souls are here to help others and assist the earth transition from a three-dimensional grid of disillusion to the fifth-dimension’s unity consciousness.
Love Your Perfectly Imperfect Body.
My worth is determined by me. Society does not get to define my beauty... I love everything this body does for me, oftentimes without my conscious effort.
Our Quest for Love.
Rather than criticizing ourselves, however, we could look at our actions as a quest for love. It is our inner child trying to get their needs met.
Sunday Dance Tribe. {poetry}
I dance over their bones
like Shiva
pulverizing their remains
until what is left
turns back into soil,
from which I resurrect myself.
But I’m Different with You.
I want to inhale him, shoot him into my bloodstream. Is he a relapse or am I just relaxing? Breathing again. Just once more. It’ll be different this time…
@2016 Rebelle Society