Her blood is on my hands
Just a child, so pure & clean
Unaware of the insolence of man
Not knowing life is seldom what its seems
Young girl, who used to get so excited
Who felt something other than the numb
Passion & fire for a dream ever-ignited
Unwilful ignorance & heartache none
I'm sorry that I couldn't save you
How could it all have come to this?
You used to think God made you
And speak sweet words from your lips
Though orphaned & rejected
By whom was supposed to keep you safe
Though abused and neglected
By a woman who looked the other way
I know those wounds run deep
I know that they're still unhealed
I know the pain from which you bleed
I was there in that flower field
Yes, I know I have your blood on me
But, no one will hurt you anymore
I'll keep us safe, we're what we need
It won't ever be how it was before
Young girl, look how strong we've grown
I'll save us now, we're no longer alone
Love,
Chayle
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A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge6 days ago in Poets
Affection and Healing for Yourself
During the night of the last quarter moon, I gathered my ritual supplies. I carefully handled the chunk of black tourmaline that would protect me from your overall negative and narcissistic energy. I carefully walked the house with my stick of selenite in hand, asking the universe to cleanse our working space.
By Alisha Wilkins ✒️🦋🖋️3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This was so poignant and emotional. Loved your poem!