My love 

My love,

Listen…

 

You are not broken.

You are scarred and still standing,

Battle worn, weary,

But still kind,

still needed.

 

You are not defeated.

 

Stop feeding that darkness

with old lies

and unrelenting doubt.

 

 

My love,

Look….

 

Look through my eyes,

Into this heart,

Offered,

Open in these bloodied hands,

 

Listen,

Look…

And I’ll show you,

the miracle you’ve become.

 

cswhitlow

Will

I will set this fear on fire.

I will brush the blood and gravel from these weary knees.

I will stand and sift through the glorious ash of the girl too afraid to live.

I will gather up the good pieces left refined

And leave the rest to become ink and scars.

I will put to good use this needle and thread.

I will allow to mend what has been left torn open.

I will open wide, wiser eyes and seek.

I will sing a new song.

I will emerge less of her ….

and so very much more.

I will.

I am.

cswhitlow

Growing Pains


Woken from nightmares again …

What if’s and Why did I’s

raining down like volcano ash;

suffocating,

gray,

smothering the light

that sets free.

What if I simply slipped back into winter, frozen and numb?

Why did I let myself begin to burn?

What if I ran again …

from him, from her, from the dreams?

Why did I let myself be seen?

What if I went back into hiding?

Why did I step from the shadows at all?

What if I gave back into fear?

Why did I ever believe their lies?

cswhitlow

Battle Axe

Her midnight words,

Uncaged,

Unrestrained,

Let loose by fear,

Had always been a battle axe,

Fashioned to frighten away,

Bent towards annihilation.

They tore down,

ripped apart,

Severed limbs

And organs…

More often her own.

She had always been destruction for the things she wanted most.

Until one came…

who could finally withstand

her blade.

cswhitlow

9 years

She was…

Wild desert wind and infectious laughter,

Open windows on abandoned Texas highways,

Cigarette smoke and Ralph Lauren perfume.

Mad with moonlight,

Seared golden by summer sunshine,

Faded blue jeans and iced tea on porch swings,

Creedence on Friday nights and Mozart on Sunday mornings.

She was tenacious hope wrapped in a broken body, begging for mercy.

She is…

The storm green depths staring back at me from our mirror,

The words bleeding from my fingertips,

The burden I carried,

The fire within that drives me,

The haunting tones dripping from my throat,

The rebellion that denies me defeat,

The need to be held,

The love that made me.

I am …

my mother’s child.

cswhitlow