By Tamara Williams
Pain, there are many women who carries your labor.
Here are their stories.
Cheers to the woman in Black with no strings attached.
Your soreness goes where ever you do.
You lose yourself in everybody of water and tree banks seem to release songs of truth every time you walk by.
Do you listen?
Every time it rings I breathe. I used to be closed off to success but by holding on to grief I climbed into myself just in time to make the sea cry.
Hating wasn’t allowed anymore. I told you that winter didn’t breathe, and you didn’t believe me.
Wanting, earning, warnings.
All the signs how could I have missed them?
Lying on my back I heard the moon cry, do you forgive me? Granted was a new life.
It was as if I never left.
The way skin touches your nose
I only knew lovers who laughter somehow managed to match their lies.
You mourn women, just like your father and his father before.
I had been a seed of uncompressed doubt that sat in the back of your mind,
too eager to come up whenever you thought you need something.
I never thought anything would pass expect the wisdom in my lines in my hand.
They tell the future, don’t they?
I hold your tongue- gripping the only form of reality I thought I would never know.
You bleed sips.
Running through forests
I can go nowhere but I up.
I can go nowhere but through
I can go nowhere but you.
Sometimes I rage war on myself.
Bring death to unfit corners. Leave peace in the hands of strangers.
Neglect my wounds to bring others happiness.
Be anything but earth.
There is blood on my hands.
Sticky, wet, moist.
Pressed up on against the surface it does not heal.
I keep telling myself the wounds won’t lick themselves and how can then when my arms are so heavy?
I hold them up as a sign I surrender. Both a sin and a curse, I watch the moon dance in my pain. Rejoice in my burn.
Lie in my agony.
If I could win the game I would. I don’t doubt love like I use to. I just doubt the questions behind it.
The movement behind the screen. The emptiness behind the man.
The planets seem to move gently
as if they aren’t hearts.
As if they aren’t heavy.
But I can see them next to the moon.
Almost as if they are nonexistent.
Almost as if they are me.
About the Author:
Tamara Williams is a NYC native and received her MFA from Mills College. She believes in writing from the heart space.