I am rooting for us, and Elegy for Her by Faye Alexandra Rose

-

CW: Please note 'Elegy for Her', the second poem on this page, contains reference to sexual assault. 

I am rooting for us


We are like two sunflowers, 

growing 

tall, but

individually, 

almost touching, but we never quite     manage it.

We have found ourselves so desperate for the sunlight,

that we forgot to work on our life in the shade.

The sourness that lies unspoken between our roots,

sits silently,

rotting our foundations,

until there is nothing left to nourish,

until,

we 

wilt

away. 

---

Elegy for Her 



She lay silent, buried underneath 

his body 

that was about to suffocate hers 

of life,  

he used her body as a sin, as he  

ripped apart 

her skin 

with knives, 

she was a mannequin 

to be cast aside 

and placed on to a pile 

with other statistics, 

mirrors became her enemy, 

she did not want to see 

the reflection of defeat, as 

the pain still feeds on her happiness.  



She used to refer to herself in past tense 

for life was not 

as kind 

back then 

and, 

slowly, 

my focus became who I am now; 

a woman who could no longer be touched 

by him, 

a woman free to breathe without 

his toxic fumes that sat 

heavy on my chest.



I now stand tall above 

the home I have built  

from the rubble, 

allowing myself to 

feel the sun on my skin

as I close my eyes and no longer 

dream, 

for my dream is now a reality:  

I am cleansed. 

I am healed. 

I am worthy.  

---

Faye Alexandra Rose is a third-year student studying English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Worcester. Her work has appeared in online magazines such as; Mookychick, small leaf press and Fevers of the mind. She can be found on Twitter @FayeAlexandraR1 or via her website: www.fayealexandrarose.wordpress.com. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

-
Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time
Read more

Things They Don't Tell You by Barbara O'Donnell

-
That the moment the words terminal diagnosis leave the doctor’s mouth, the grieving starts. Speaking a foreign language to cover for the fact that there is nothing they can do. That the family will fight, even as they know the treatment plan is the best medicine available. That his swallowing reflex will depart before him, making you figure out ways to give him the only thing he begs for, cold juice or whiskey. That you’ll beg the pharmacist to tell you, which is the better mouthwash to use. As if it would make a difference. That you’ll spend those last days, not telling stories or saying how much you love each other. But that he’ll repeatedly throw you out of the room. Make you wonder again, whether to contradict the doctor’s orders ; to give him what he wants. But which will also hasten his demise. So that you can try to eke out the minutes, that the clock tells you are passing, but which seem to stand still inside the close, bare
Read more

Letters never sent by Beth O'Brien

-
I write you letters, like these ones here.  I focus on my handwriting  so I don’t over-think the words  I’m never going to show you.  I burn a stamp, an envelope, and imagine  flames dancing from inside a postbox, pretending I can smell the ink melting.  Sometimes, I think that’s the only way forward and I wonder if red becomes redder if you burn it?  Every letter I write is a reminder of why  they are letters never sent.  Every letter I never send is a reminder of why  I write you words, like these ones here. --- Beth O’Brien is a third year English Literature student at the University of Birmingham. She has had work published with  Foxglove Journal ,  Nine Muses Poetry , and  BellaOnline Literary Review.  She is a reviewer for Mad Hatter Reviews and Riggwelter Press, and has written articles for  sheswanderful.com   and the  Graduate Recruitment Bureau  blog. 
Read more