Img by MishalIbrahim via Unsplash

How rarely we hear the apology
deserved, the remorse a heart
hungers to feel, sure hands to close
the gaps of a free-flowing wound.

We squirm as we watch our burden
bleed out on the floor, full display.
We wait for a reclamation
that will never come.

Feel the gulf of silence widen as
those responsible stride confidently
from the room, people patting their
back as they go- a hero’s exit.

We rush to gather the pieces back up
into arms still broken, so desperately
ashamed of the plot playing out,
the story the others must see.

We strap the weight upon spindly spines
fault that belongs on another’s back,
words on another’s tongue, pain that
should haunt another’s heart,

but it doesn’t. So instead, we kept
what we never should have,
what should have been left
to die alone on that floor

even if it remained unclaimed.


Photo by Dean Raphael

Celtic legend, woven kelp
salty depths and a selkie song.

A woman lost
in an unknown world
herself, yet not
her soul did not belong.

Seen as beautiful from without
a fish out of water within

unwhole.

More than that though-
deeper, so much deeper
her silken skin

stolen

her power to move through
the waves unbridled
joy incandescent

stolen

who she was, interlaced
myth, truth, and legend, her
vibrant depths and dark brilliance

stolen.

Promises broken, trust betrayed
trust in others, in self. Salted
burns and scalded wounds-

wounds that not only sear but feel foreign within a terrifyingly…


Photo by Ramez E. Nassif on Unsplash

The fire’s gone out, the
danger far spent, my body
still relives the flames.


Photo by Devin Avery on Unsplash

There was no room at the table for me
for my differences and lack of company.
Life had yet left me intact at that age
but they still smelled it on me,
the potential to break.

There was no room at the table for me
new state, new school notwithstanding.
By now I’d been shattered, reputation
proceeds. No depth of silence could
unwrite their words that endeavored
to rewrite my story.

There was no room at the table for me
only this time I picked up a hammer.

Ash Sturg

Boston raised mountain dweller ▲ My writing studio is often a playground bench ▲ Musing in watercolor + ink over at instagram.com/ash.muses

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