before you know hope,
you must know darkness.
— what will you do with this gift?
© Liezel Graham 2019.
Photography by Annie Spratt.
Tag: Inner Healing
captive
i have tasted this poison before.
still i lift the cup again.
— captive.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
This is the second micropoem in my #HealingTheHurtChildWithin
series.
I don’t think that I need to elaborate on this one.
If this is you, you’ll know exactly what I mean.
Sometimes, if we haven’t healed, we keep returning to the thing that holds us hostage.
For some of us this is an addiction—be it alcohol, food, sex, drugs, gambling… for others it is choosing a toxic relationship, or the same types of toxic partners because it’s all we know.
Perhaps it is choosing the same addictions or behaviours that owned the ones who love(d) you.
I would love to hear your insight into this,
liezel
Photography by Johann Piber.
fear has a hungry voice.
the fear that owns you
has a hungry
voice
falling
from
your
lips
when you are not looking.
— fear has a hungry voice.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
This is the first micropoem in my #HealingTheHurtChildWithin
series.
‘The fear that owns you…’
Childhood trauma or hurts that you have not dealt with, becomes another voice that lingers in the background.
It often speaks in anger, or in fear, when it shouldn’t.
It doesn’t speak up when it should.
It ignores things that it should not overlook.
It is easily triggered by things it shouldn’t be triggered by.
It says ‘yes’ when it wants to be loved, and ‘no’ when it is afraid of being loved.
When it speaks, it often leaves you wondering ‘why did I say that’ or ‘why do I react this way’?
It is a voice that is hungry—hungry to be loved, hungry to be found ‘enough’, hungry to be seen, hungry just to feel some sort of confirmation that there is still life and that it is worth living.
It always has a root.
I am still very aware of this other voice of mine. Healing has not been an overnight thing for me.
I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments,
liezel
Photography by Evie Shaffer.
a series of micropoems dealing with childhood trauma.
I have been working on a collection of micro poems that focus on the effects of (unhealed) childhood trauma, and disordered/chaotic relationships with primary caregivers on a child, and how they might affect the adult later on, and the way that these early traumas might then cause them to relate to relationships, love, (potential) addictions, their ability to handle conflict, and how they might as adults with deep emotional scars, negotiate their place in the world.
As always my poems are written partly from a personal place, and partly from my professional experience in mental health.
There is no right or wrong to my words, other than personal truth based on introspection, however there is nothing new under the sun and if you should find yourself in my description, please do look out for my posts in the next couple of days.
They be will short, sharp and sometimes bittersweet, but always I hope, a springboard for deeper reflection and healing.
Perhaps we can find some healing together,
liezel
Photography by Lisa Fotios.
how many ways are there to love?
i slice perfect circles every day
for years
the shape is important
it keeps your world
safe
carrots for your lunch, and
a yellow apple
the sweetness
for after
always the same
they said this would be hard
on my heart, but
here we are
you and i so far up this mountain
that i cannot hear their voices anymore
they didn’t tell me that love
would fall from my hands
at lunchtime,
without carrying a single word.
— how many ways are there to love?
© Liezel Graham 2019.
Photography by Monicore.
my son eats a handful of foods.
the same ones for years, now.
this is not uncommon in #autism.
initially—in the very early years, just after diagnosis, this scared me.
now, it is who he is.
we have our own language of love.
words are superfluous.
x
let me show you how to let your heart walk out of your mouth.
he tells me how men are made.
first, by breaking everything gentle that ever had a chance to grow towards the light.
as if a man was never grown below a woman’s heart.
then, by searing
the scars with
white-hot
shame.
there are things that he still cannot
say.
his words own him.
but sometimes at night he allows himself to feel everything
that will not leave
his mouth.
it lives there.
large and silent.
this, is how men are made
by other men.
later, i tell my son
who still has sunshine and softness living inside his mouth, that
all his words are naked when they climb up his throat.
they are not to be dressed up,
before they fall like stars
from his tongue.
this is how his heart will walk out of his mouth, one day.
i am building a man, too.
— let me show you how to let your heart walk out of your mouth.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
Photograph by Kat Jayne.
do you know what my freedom tastes like?
i go to the store for essentails,
eggs,
bread,
and bags
to line the kitcen bin with.
but in the fruit aisle i am seduced by mangoes from a hot country,
and i fall in love
right there.
i touch,
i pick up,
and i smell
the ripeness of the red skin
and
everything that lies beneath.
i have never liked mangoes,
a woman says to me.
they are too messy,
and the juice
stains.
i nod quietly at her truth, but
i also go home to my kitchen where nothing makes sense anymore
since a lifetime ago.
and here, in the afternoon light,
i peel and i slice,
and i cut away,
until
the flesh blooms ripe orange
in my hungry hands,
like the sun,
or truth.
and i eat the fragrant offering,
the juice running down my
chin and onto my shirt.
and i think to myself,
this will leave a mark that cannot ever be removed.
and it tastes like freedom,
and like all the more
that i have been
searching for,
for so long
now.
— do you know what my freedom tastes like?
© Liezel Graham 2019.
Photograph by Ruth Currie.
