~ by Eileen Rosensteel
I plucked out my wing feathers-they said I belonged on the ground.
I stopped dancing and singing-they said I had no rhythm.
I silenced myself-no one was listening.
I stitched my eyes shut-So I didn’t have to see what was happening.
I dug my own grave and lay in it-So I didn’t have to feel the pain.
So I could be at peace
In the emptiness.
There in the pit
I found my bones
In the marrow of my bones
There was strength
In the pulsing of my blood
There was rage
In my flesh-Desire
I clawed my way out of that grave
Using my strength, rage and desire.
Carefully I cut away the stitches
To see the truth
I whispered my words to myself
I started to sway and hum
To my own music
Now I am gathering feathers
~ taken from We’Moon Calendar 2011