Poetry Writing


The sun had the audacity to warm my skin
the next day. It rose even though I was
unable to, burrowed under blankets
listening to the hollow scratching
between my legs that was reawakened by fear.

I was a victim who was once again
reprimanded for being a victim.

I was a woman too afraid to walk the streets.
I was a heart too terrified by what i knew my friends were feeling.
I was a body itching to cut, knowing many others

felt the same itch.

But the sun had the bravery to warm my skin.
It rose and gave me enough strength to
dig a few words out of my ribcage.
To see the words of artists willing to fight.
My fight begins with theirs and cannot end.



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