My life is exactly that—mine. I do the best with it each day. No one has a right to preface their justifications for denying me anything based on who I am, or even all I’ve done. Deny me your time, protection, money, or love—just do it honestly and take responsibility for it instead of pushing that off on me.
Here’s a Breaking the Legacy of Silence BADASS. I’m shouting to the world with her. It’s time we who’ve been abused are not only heard, but VALIDATED.
I have many stories, I think that we all do. Some of us, the ones who have been through hard moments, we hide the stories. We have been taught to feel the shame of those stories. To feel less because of them. And I refuse.
My memory is still very fragmented. I blocked more of my story out to save my mental health than I remember. Yet, I remember enough. I am a survivor. I was abused. I was raped, multiple times. And when I asked for help I was told it never happened. I was told that I was crazy.
I might be crazy, but it did happen. I have been brave before, I told the man who abused me as a child that I would scream if he came near me again. I was eight or nine. I’m not entirely sure of the exact age. He locked me…
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My first poetry publications of 2017!
Kim D. Bailey, a 2017 Pushcart Prize Nominee, writes Women’s Fiction, short stories, poetry, non-fiction, a weekly column. Kim is a poetry editor for two journals. She is currently editing a third novel and does freelance editorial work. She’s published in several online literary journals and print magazines, podcasts, and has taught writing courses online. She currently lives in Fort Oglethorpe, GA with her partner and published poet, S. Liam Spradlin. You may connect with her at http://www.kimbaileydeal.net or Twitter @kimbaileydeal, Instagram @kimdbaileyauthor or her Facebook page https://m.facebook.com/AuthorKimDBailey/
There will be time for sadness again,
to wring hands, wail at the half-moon,
gnash teeth and shake a fist
for the losses and pain,
but not today.
Grief will rest heavy upon
the chest and like a cat’s claws,
dig in for an extended stay
or feel numb
to form a sinkhole in the heart,
but not today.
Another moment of rage will burn
hot white, red bloodletting knives will
be thrown from our lips and eyes
for the wrongs not righted,
but not today.
Disappointment will drop by
unexpected and unwelcome, to remind
us that life is never fair
or to those we love,
a reality check of ups and downs–
but not today.
On this day we will climb this tower
together, tethered only to one another, tied
by beats of our hearts, in sync
serendipitous and surreal,
and while we gaze above
the treetops from this place,
or at the clouds from this blanket
on the grass,
never leaving the ground.
At Last, Arrival
The first Saturday in March
we met on the corner, Camp House
coffee for two,
a voice from my phone stated,
“You have arrived at your destination.”
I looked both ways before crossing
searching for a familiar face
booked for several months
kind eyes, hard to tell the color,
but they draw me close
and we collide.
All at once it’s clear
your face more familiar than I first
believed, your smile a caress and I let you
wrap me like a gift, as I fold up within your arms
as though my place had been saved
while our lives transpired, preparations
made, hearts broken
glued back together with grace
given to hope, in all hopelessness,
never give up
never say die
and when I look into
that I know
that I know
I have arrived.
Are we comfortable, content, moving daily toward a dream—or complacent,
caught up in sad refrains, reaching but not rising, to meet one another
watching the decay, hopeless? What would it take?
Teaching moments miss the mark, slide around us, leaving us lonely
looking for a way out. Stifling fear and oppression fill the void once overflowing,
lingering love lost on echoes of egregious words, killing fields
of kindness run with blood; broken hearts and dreams, derailed by deleterious
dogma, refusing any outsider purchase on this sacred
ground. Blood, it’s all that matters, despite the vows or veneration whispered, wedded.
I tripped over my tongue and sprained my ankle aspiring for first place in your
heart, I broke my own, shattered against the wall where blood begets bond
above all, so this is where I limp away.
Kim D. Bailey’s “A Father’s Day Message” in her Breaking the Legacy of Silence series is out today. Be sure to check it out! #fathers #amwriting #amreading
Grief does that to you. You don’t lose people all at once. You lose them over time. No matter how it happens, the pain doesn’t go away, but dulls and fades with the daylight and grows dim in the accumulation of nights under a moonless sky. A lost moment of memory, the inability to picture a smile or remember the sound of a voice, brings the pain back with clarity—but the diminished pieces held remain faded. Nothing can bring them back, and nothing can stop the deterioration.
What’s important, in feminism and any other form of activism and advocacy, when it comes to writing, movie-making, art, or any other expression from a human perspective—is that we honor the story and learn from it.
The end goal is to see things in a new way, from a new perspective, and to have not only an enlightened or educated awakening, but compassion and empathy for those we have just watched on the big screen, or read about, or heard speak at a Women’s Rights Conference.
When women begin to criticize and demean other women’s methodologies and origins of their stories, they practice a form of oppression and suppression, essentially mimicking those who came before us; those who told females of all ages to shut the fuck up because you’re causing a scene and you’re an embarrassment to the rest of us. Their criticism is exclusionary. They are saying, in effect, that women shouldn’t tell stories differently than they would. How is this okay?
We cut with our words and silences, let resentment fester and eat away at any connection we may have with another. Sometimes, we must step away from the carnage and let the dogs fight it out. Our sanity often depends on our self-care and boundaries in these situations.
Kim D. Bailey gives us letters of encouragement in her column this week check it!
My unconditional love, my time, resources, energy, and protection, and loyalty are now reserved only for those who are willing to offer reciprocity for all the above. There are no more compromises in this area for me.
Today I am a strong woman who has finally found herself. I found my voice. I took back my power. I look in the mirror and see a deeply flawed woman who is creative and intelligent and brave. At last, I learned to mother myself and I realize I did the best I could with what I had in my life.
So, with all of that said, and life being a bitch sometimes, we must understand that to love another human being is to stand back and give them room to breathe and be who they are, not some manifestation of our expectations of who they should be.
Ah, but here’s the rub. In order for any kind of relationship to work, there must be reciprocity.
I love and accept you…you love and accept me. Simple, right?
Not always, but it’s worth a shot when the reward is immeasurable love and loyalty.
When it comes to loving our LGBTQ NB/GF friends and family, we must look beyond our preconceived notions of who and what they should be, our individual beliefs, and see the person within. That’s who we fight for. That’s who we love.