Smoke Scry Cry
The smoke spoke softly
wafting into yesterdays I had put aside
in favor of my pride
I remember not being able to wash away the smell
the horror of abandoned children
working in a living hell
shell of an empath hollowed
I could not even touch my own children some days
serving in a space of state violence
silence and hunger
we suffered alongside those babies on the inside
and I could not wash the rot away
I could not come clean
I sweated grief from pours
wore my heart on my sleeve trauma in my pocket and lamentation
hung from wrists like charms
there was always a rash around my neck
raised bumps marching towards my throat like troops
the truth was locked in a tower in my neck
I slumped
I hunched over in grotesque empathy
while I carried baby tears
and momma shame
under my skin
this does not come off in shower
they do not sell enough deodorant
to keep the secrets sealed
when the subcutaneous and the subconscious conspire with your spirit
to alarm those around me that our bodies are in battle
the war don’t wash off so easily
for me
I sleep by the fire, I nurse babies to sleep in hell
I lock children to sleep in cells
I am sorry you are offended
perhaps it’s best you keep your distance
anyway
https://medium.com/@fiyahangelou/scrying-or-trance-as-a-writing-prompt-7f012de824e