(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.

The places I cannot go, yet.

I am

a house of

many rooms.

Quiet, dusty corridors

sunlight

gently

dripping in

like liquid

gold.

How I love to drink my tea,

a lovely Assam,

malty on the tongue

and comforting,

as I walk through

these spaces

gently touching

things

I had

almost

forgotten.

But not

yet.

It is comforting

to find

old friends.

You,

and you,

and even

you.

We must stay in

touch,

I say

to the past.

But

some doors

are

locked.

In dark corners

where the

light

does not

quite

reach.

And try as I might

when I stand before them

trembling key in

hand

I cannot enter.

I cannot enter

though

I must.

There is

work

to be done

within,

but not

yet.

And so,

instead

I sit before them

quietly

weeping

ink

onto paper.

Until.

— The places I cannot go, yet.

© Liezel Graham 2018.