Hear Me, Heal Me

I decided to post my entire poetry books here as a little exclusive for those who happen to find my profile. This is a poetry book exploring the healing of the inner child and the impact a wounded inner child has on every aspect of life. If you'd still like to support me, I'll link the Amazon link. Thank you for sharing space with me.

Before

Wounded child let me heal you. Let me squeeze you so tight that the sadness oozes out of your blood-soaked pores.

I am sorry for ignoring your cosmic bruises and cries for help and not keeping you safe and closing my ears to your agony.

You only longed for me to hear your voice as you were crammed into the dingy entrapment of my subconscious.

When the outside world prodded you with triggers until you escaped my mind you unhinged your tired jaw and fired your rifle I pretended I didn’t hear the explosion.

I am sorry I allowed the darkness to swallow you tear you to shreds with its jagged teeth.

But just know that we are safe and protected now we are heard and understood now we are loved and cherished now.

Let me heal you wounded child.

Cinnamon

I bolted through the back door from a long day of play to find my grandmother whipping and stirring.

Nutmeg sang tenor sugar hummed soprano “I’m making sweet potato pie” she smiled.

Her face becomes the pie sweet and brown the pie becomes her face cozy and safe.

She knew my taste buds were in ecstasy when the pie indulged them.

“Go wash up and help me”

I sprinted to the bathroom feet skidding on the tiles never happier to see soap and running water.

Racing back to the kitchen through hallways that seemed endless

I arrived and awaited instruction.

She released her spoon into my small, salivating hands.

“Stir.”

This is the short scene I keep in a VHS container on my dusty bookshelf I replay it when I need to feel safe to feel needed.

I trudge through the front doors from a stressful workday to find my grandmother seated in front of the TV chuckling in sync to the laugh track of a game show re-run.

Her legs reclined in the air Her legs too frail to stand endless hours in her kitchen.

I know how much she misses it

so sometimes I ask her about an old recipe I already know all the steps to just so she can close her eyes and draw out a long

“hmmmm”.

And she takes her mind back and she sees herself whipping and stirring with me next to her strong legs palms out awaiting instruction.

Slumber

Floral pajamas laid out on fluffy pillows.

Sickly sweet cupcakes frosted by freshly manicured hands.

Game show host man morphed into game show host girl

arms waving fingers pointing she begins her deliberation.

Boy-crazed whispers under forts made of bubble-gum sheets.

Restful slumber on a bed of sweet innocence.

Neptune

Rickety, wooden roller coaster underneath a tangerine sky we were unstoppable with rainbow-colored tongues and candy-stained fingers.

We raised our hopeful hands

up to the heavens let out falsetto screams and

breathless giggles as our stomachs, full of butterflies descended to our feet.

We were weightless zooming through mercury loops and Pluto corkscrews

our space suits flooded with cosmic reflections.

As we free-fell from the moon back down to Earth giddiness filed our bellies and drowned out the butterflies gravity gave our galaxies the energy to ascend again.

Magician

We returned from the pet store

I held your surprise behind my back hands almost too small to wrap around the breadth of a small stuffed bunny.

“Sit” I commanded through excited lips my smile almost ripping my sun-soaked face.

You complied tail anxiously waving in the crisp Autumn air and like a magician

I pulled the toy from my sleeve waved it in front of you

and watched as you pounced.

I listened to that obnoxious squeaker for hours as it taught me about the things we endure to see our loved ones happy.

I would engrain the memory of treading through pain to prove how much I can love.

Growing Pains

“My legs hurt. My shoulders hurt. My back hurts”

Honey those are just growing pains.

My mom would say.

“My heart hurts. My broken trust hurts. My lack of direction hurts”

ABC’S

Always Believe Children’s Dreams/ Exposing

Familiar Giants /Hedonistic Imperial Jovial

Kings/ Laughing Monstrously Near

Oncoming Princes /Quivering/ Reaching South To Undress Victoriously /While Xeroxed Youth Zigzag.

Blurry

The memories of us are blurry they shape shift into amorphous blots of time there is only so much space a traumatized child’s brain can hold.

But I remember one November afternoon eating juicy Granny Smith apple slices from an orange plastic bowl that was older than I was.

You sat on your bed an array of nail polish splayed out around you and a Teen Magazine underfoot.

The sun slid through our pink curtains as gracefully as a ballerina making pirouettes on our walls.

A warm breeze trickled intermittently and for a moment we had peace.

I remember you lying on a plum purple bean bag and me lying on our oatmeal-colored carpet watching movies until the moonlight poured through the large windows and enveloped us in affection.

I remember you begging for a turn on our Nintendo but I selfishly dismissed you and your desires.

And I remember

I remember the words that followed

You’ll get to play all by your lonesome soon.

I didn’t understand your words.

I couldn’t feel the weight of them just yet.

But if I could go back to that moment that the air was filled with water and you started suffocating I’d embrace your tiny waist with my tiny arms so tight all the years of trauma would leak out of you like

Play Dough.

Then I’d ask you to stay.

Please. For me?

Rescue

The fire erupts in the living room spreads to the kitchen and soon makes its way to the desolate backyard.

They are shouting for me to grab the extinguisher that my young mind is having trouble remembering how to use.

Put out the fire!

They yell.

Put out the fire!

My inner voice yells back.

I run to grab the extinguisher my youthful skin being covered in thick smoke.

This is the third time this week I have waded through this smoke the couch cushions are ashes now the lotuses in the backyard are hanging on tightly and so is the emaciated lion and the dehydrated butterflies and all the featherless doves.

I see the extinguisher through the sunset-colored flames and turn back for a quick second to see my familial ties being devoured by the heavy smoke my grandmother is gasping clutching her neck her eyes popping out from their wrinkled sockets.

I turn back more panicked now and

I grab the extinguisher with my small shaky hands release the pin and-

911 what’s your emergency?

Someone is going to get hurt. Please hurry.

Any weapons?

N-no.

My wounds open again.

Strong Man, Broken Boy

Strong Man turned into Broken Boy with one second of realization that everything he is, is everything he swore he’d never be broken promises cut him like those broken bottles on the living from floor.

Strong Man says he doesn’t feel the pain.

Strong Man turned into Broken Boy crouched in a dusty corner as voices raised higher than the rooftop saliva spouted everywhere and he never knew a shade of red more familiar than the one in front of him.

Broken Boy’s cupped hands over his ears turned into Strong Man’s clenched fists Broken Boy’s whimpering turned to Strong Man’s shouting he never felt like either could be heard.

Strong Man turned into Broken Boy with one soft voice and understanding touch but Broken Boy hasn’t learned how to let others heal him.

Touch him. Really feel his skin.

He recoils and Strong Man takes over too weak to cry too afraid to heal what makes him who he is.

How can I get rid of the source of my strength?

Three Strong Women Breaking

I’d turn my clocks back to see my grandmother’s wrinkled hands ironed to a crisp to see her Sunday dinners dripping in butter and kneaded with love to see her wobbly legs strong and unwavering just like her faith.

I would go back in time to hear my aunt’s keys jingle at the front door announcing her arrival before she does to hear her chuckling at memories my grandmother brought up to hear her remember and play all her memories aloud.

I would rewind time to smell my mother’s musky perfume and BIG RED flavored gum to hear the woosh of her paper fan swaying in church to see her home before sickness crept out of every corner.

Refuge

Jehovah is powerful.

He is love and light.

He knows all things.

He is a refuge.

I called on his name with bruised knees and wet palms my voice was an earthquake making my frail frame sway in the aftershocks.

I braced for peace.

I braced for peace.

I braced for peace.

Nothing.

The rumbling continued around me and I thought I hadn’t shouted loudly enough.

They told me Jehovah hears the wounded.

Maybe my wounds were too small.

I called again after

I heard bombs erupting blowing the roof off the house.

Maybe now.

I braced for safety

I braced for safety

I braced for safety I braced for- the walls caved in and crushed my slender spirit.

Am I wounded enough now, Jehovah?

Can you hear me now?

Field of Daisies

When the sheen of your fur started to fade and your eyes turned a milky grey I knew told you, you could leave that you’ve done so much in such a short time.

We sat on the cool backyard porch reliving memories looking out into the dry grass thinking about your favorite spot to sunbathe and your first bath and how small the yard seemed now.

You went to sleep that night and woke up gracefully the next morning

I kissed you goodbye as I left for work coffee overflowing from my thermos.

On my drive home

I imagined the clouds were stacks of pillows and I saw you resting at the very top.

When I got home

I was told you had finally decided to leave.

They told me you laid on your favorite spot on the porch

went to sleep and just kept dreaming.

Sometimes I still hear you barking or hear your small paws

skidding across the hardwood floor.

You will always sleep in my memory.

I hope your dreams are peaceful.

Burgundy Roots

Boulder boulder on my shoulders will you leave when I get older?

Burning boulders on my back sizzling until my spine cracks.

Burden on my family’s mind “You’re so bright”

I have to shine.

Burgundy roots on my arms if you bloom you’ll surely cause alarm.

Boulder boulder on my shoulders will you leave when I get older?