The Mothers are Tired
Not from lack of sleep, our bodies having grown used to that by now. No, the mothers are tired from holding the world’s questions in our burning, busy hands. Trying to find answers true enough to whisper into little ears without harming little heads. The mothers are tired from fighting for our children, from fighting…
Bittersweet
Put down the rose-colored glasses and stop romanticizing your life. Turn your face up towards the sun, then the rain. For joy and sorrow are this world’s constant companions. And there is no failure in feeling. Failure is found in denying. Your disbelief, dismissing, dissatisfaction. Your glossing over and sugar coating. Your silence. Your turning…
Heartsick
This is what I’ve come to know: It’s not my body that’s flawed, Needing to be beaten, restricted into submission. Held up against others, called into question. It’s not the shape I hold that needs changing. Not a number on the scale, not a bigger pair. It’s not my body that’s sick, distorted, discontent. It’s…
My Son
Honey hair, with eyes made of mischief and secrets, their sticky sweetness saved only for me. Little body full of feathers and fire enough to move mountains, enough to move hearts and souls, enough to move tears down the track of my face. Cheeks carved hollow like their daddy’s, the angels taking bites before I…
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Miller Voigt 