Hydrangeas

Memory is a funny thing,
How it varies from person to person…

Like, my mom remembering me
Playing with the blue hydrangeas
Out front of our apartment
In the old, brown Victorian I grew up in
She remembers me holding the bundles of blossoms like a bride’s bouquet,
Playing Wedding Day like so many innocent children do…

Memory is a funny thing,
How it varies from person to person…

I have never told her
That I hate hydrangeas,
That they remind me of that first day
My older neighbor held me down
And threatened me and my family,
And violated my innocence,
And it hurt, and I cried and fought,
And I remember it half from my own perspective, afraid and violated,
And half from above those beautiful
Blue hydrangeas…
I fucking hate hydrangeas,
They have become a symbol of everything wrong in the world, in my mind, in me…

Memory is a funny thing,
How it varies from person to person…

Twilight Fade

I see you, still scaling
The pedestal
I crashed from…
I’m not there,
Only fragmented feelings
And a faint scent
Remain…

I am the ravens
Gronking in alarm
Deep in the forest,
Just over your shoulder
I am the trillium
Blooming under
The wise ancient giants
Where the dank scent
Of moss mingles with death,
Where life remembers
A softer time
Before cycling back to decay,
And fortifies new life.

I am more and I am less
I am free and I am bound
A contradiction
Of power and desperation,
Whispering in the sunrise
Fading like mist in the twilight
Howling at the pink moon…

Priority

Most of my life
I’ve been on the back burner
Still functioning, but only in peripherals
The pretty one
(Like I chose my genetics)
The smart one
(Look this up for me)
The strong one
(You’ll survive)
The good listener
(Even when it’s really none of my business)
There have been moments
When I felt a soul’s connection-
A kindred who saw me
A spark in the dim
A heart to hold hands with
Even that didn’t last…
I am not anyone’s priority, and I am learning to become my own.
Maybe you won’t recognize me
This time.

Washing the Light Away

I love mornings
When the clouds are fiery patches
In the crisp blue of early sunrise,
When thin filaments of silver
Are caught on branches in the glow of low sun, shimmering like tinsel-
When wind bellows through the redwoods and maples,
Swirling red needles and golden leaves,
Autumn’s rustling shower,
When the fat drops hit the windows,
Washing the light away from the season…

Beautiful

I have a strange relationship⁣⁣
With the word “beautiful”.⁣⁣
Now, I know this is⁣⁣
Supposed to be⁣⁣
A compliment,⁣⁣
Is a rite of passage for some-⁣⁣
But, when I am called beautiful,⁣⁣
I seldom feel a lift in mood,⁣⁣
That word puts me on alert…⁣⁣
Every time someone wants something⁣⁣
From me, it always starts with “beautiful”-⁣⁣
As if attraction is an excuse for abuse,⁣⁣
For ignorance of my boundaries, or of my emotional state.⁣⁣
I am not ungrateful that my physical presence is treasured,⁣⁣
Though, I notice…⁣⁣
So many enjoy looking at me,⁣⁣
But the conversation grows stale⁣⁣
When I try to interact,⁣⁣
When I move from a decoration to a soul.⁣⁣
I don’t speak to deaf ears.⁣⁣
I’m not a fucking decoration.⁣⁣
I’m a frustrated woman.⁣⁣
More than beautiful,⁣⁣
Alive.⁣⁣
~Antanya⁣⁣

Entanglement

I fall into awareness,⁣
Presence.⁣
Chills through my limbs⁣
And down my spine…⁣
I see you,⁣
In my mind’s eye-⁣
It’s been a long time⁣
Want to stay,⁣
Safe and welcome-⁣
Send my love,⁣
And hope it catches⁣
A trace of you.

Moth

You are everywhere I am.
I am draped in your presence,
Shivers down my spine
And warmth in my heart…
The rage and sorrow
Intertwine
With love and adoration.
I know the hand that reaches,
And though you beckon
Where I can’t follow,
I am mesmerized by the synergy-
I’ve always been fascinated with flame.

Existential Dread

…And people tell you to follow your dreams, but when you think of dreams, all you see is black, empty nothing, because all you’ve ever hoped for was to make it, and you did, but you didn’t… And what is there to reach for, when all you have energy for is breathing, and when you want to talk, they want to yell, or fight, or fuck, or anything but fucking listen…

I get dramatic when I’m sick and tired…

Forgive me.

I talk to myself,⁣⁣
Because I know⁣⁣
I’m the only one⁣⁣
Who will listen.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
My throat⁣⁣
And my fingers ache,⁣⁣
Heavy with the words⁣⁣
I can’t seem to find-⁣⁣
I miss you⁣⁣
So fucking much.⁣⁣
⁣
I know that if we⁣⁣
Are truly connected,⁣⁣
You are never really gone…⁣⁣
I see your hand reaching for me,⁣⁣
But all I can do is bleed,⁣⁣
I hear you, calling,⁣⁣
But I can’t speak.⁣⁣
⁣
I swallow my feelings⁣⁣
In my dry throat⁣⁣
And wish that I could cry.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
I talk to myself,⁣⁣
Because I know⁣⁣
I’m the only one⁣⁣
Who will listen.⁣⁣

Fractured

Iridescent shards⁣
Of my past⁣
Stick in the callouses⁣
On the bottoms⁣
Of my soiled feet,⁣
I try so hard to step⁣
Gently, purposefully-⁣
Then brush the shards⁣
Away from my skin, ⁣
Pain persists⁣
And the microscopic⁣
Daggers still embed⁣
Their way into me,⁣
The bloody remnants⁣
Of fear⁣
Leave me raw,⁣
Restless and uncertain-⁣
Lost in me, ⁣
Again.⁣