(Self)Obsessed.

With

each pound

that

falls

away

a woman

increases

her

worth

and

less,

becomes

more,

unless

you

don’t

have.

But the spirit

can

shrink

too,

and there

is not enough

affirmation

in

this

gaunt world

to fill

a leaking soul.

And there are

Mothers

who are

‘them’

to our

‘us’

holding the

dying hope

of their wombs

as they

slowly

bleed life

and all

that they need

is that

which

we

reject

for the perfect

fit

of

whitewash

on these tombs.

What

have

we

done.

— (Self)Obsessed.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Salt from my Bones.

You

say that I must

write

it

all

down

and

let

my life

fall

all over

this undefiled sheet of paper

in

a healing rain

but

I am trying to

stem

this flood

from breaching

my rib

cage,

because

we

are

not

ready

for

this

purge.

— Salt from my bones.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

2018.

{Sometimes, I am not sure whether I should share a poem with a wider (and by wider I mean anybody other than me) audience. This is one of those poems. It is not an uplifting poem. It is not an encouraging poem, but it is a raw, authentic moment. And I am being brave.}