we always talk about

i n t e r g e n e r a t i o n a l

t r a u m a

what if we talked about

i n t e r g e n e r a t i o n a l

j o y ?

about our children’s messy braids—

coming undone from each step they take while running and playing.

about our kokum’s gentle hands—

strong enough to pluck the feathers, soft enough to pick bruised berries.

about our aunties laughter—

loud enough to hear for miles, vibrations that heal our hearts.

about our parents resilience—

advocating for our

i n d i g e n o u s

s t r e n g t h.

we may have been born of trauma,

but we re-write our stories,

we break the cycles,

we are born again

into

i n t e r g e n e r a t i o n a l

LOVE.

in the midst of loneliness, i left.

i no longer house the heartless,

no longer entombed by memories,

i tend to my wounds,

unashamed of how they came to be,

and although my trust is diminished,

i will draw the curtains back,

i will let the light in,

i will try again.

i am a dead tree,

rotten from the inside out,

my intestines hallowed by insects,

struggling to not be easily swayed,

blistered by the winter winds,

tender in the harshest ways,

he pushes and pulls,

testing my strength.

she is the wood-worker,

conquering mother earth,

she braces against the odds,

to her, i am not rotten nor useless,

to her, i have purpose—

i am uprooted,

harvested,

gutted,

resurrected.

she twists and bends

at my weak spots,

reminds me that it only hurts for a moment;

braided,

woven,

strengthened.

to her, i have always been

beautiful,

transformational.

to me, she has always been

the beginning,

the start of something new;

where the dark starts to fade,

and the light comes in…

dawn.

if i were to smile in the face of destruction,

to thrive off it’s embers,

reigniting the once forgotten flame,

would i be the fool who burnt twice,

or the phoenix who rose from ash?

i can’t decipher if it’s my mind or heart that wants me to run—

my nomadic heart beats against manic rhythm,

my stagnant mind sinks under the weight of dreams,

nostalgia binds them together.

i want to gather all my words,

tie them loosely, uncaringly free,

shout them at the world.

learn every language out of spite,

just so i can curse your name in every tongue,

but

it

still

wouldn’t

suffice.

you spot me in iridescent waters,

hook in mouth,

you pull me in,

knife pressed to my soft underbelly,

selfishly gutting me apart,

isn’t it mesmerizing?

the way you slaughter me,

to keep yourself alive.

people talk about having a father wound,

a mother wound…

i have a grandmother wound.

it is deeply imbedded,

stitched eloquently into my soul,

blueberry stained forever.

it is divine rage,

the deliverance of evil,

soft hymns instead of drums.

i wear it with pride,

this is mine to keep,

forever.

this morning my room was tinged blue,

the shade of blue that tells you to do it,

the shade of blue that screams out loneliness,

the shade of melancholy hearts.

so i danced one last time to the silence,

a kiss good morning,

a kiss good night,

a kiss goodbye.

it is a grimm tale,

breadcrumbs and tears,

you wait for the man,

does the man wait for you?

a man loves his freedom,

and i am a caged bird.

i run through hollow patterns,

the limbo suffices,

i am reminded that i am confided and displeased,

each time he loves less and leaves more,

it doesn’t hurt. it doesn’t swell.

stillness. melancholy. closure.

he’s got the james dean curse,

sunflower eyes suit liars like him.