Scribble Me Words

Content Warning: This poem touches on themes of trauma, loneliness, and loss.  Image Credits: Behance Once, a little girl was left behind, Abandoned by a mother, unseen by a father, Ill-treated by a sister, pushed aside by  Those meant to protect her. And in that void of cold neglect, She found her strength in the spaces between. She fought through the silence, The empty rooms where no one spoke her name. She fought against the world that left no place for her, Finding scraps of kindness in shadows, Holding on to fragments— To the smallest whispers of light she could find. Years passed. She became a young woman, Fighting still, but now with different armour— Bound by vows, And with children to protect, In a marriage that drained her of breath, Where words were like chains, and love a ghost. She gave everything, And when there was nothing left, She gave even more. But the price of survival was too high— Her spirit collapsing in the quiet hours. Time wore on. A woman broken but ...

Proctor's Ledge Memorial Image Credit : Salem Witch Museum. Tituba — The Accused "The devil came to me and bid me serve him." My master, Minister Parris, did beat me to confess, His daughter ill under an 'evil' hand. Naturally, upon witchcraft was blame cast, And me—a coloured servant, A most natural form of witch. On the other women Did I spin my tale of evil— Sarah Good and Goody Osborne Did I throw into this pit of hell. My 'confession'—the bars of prison, My denial—the throes of death. 'Pon my words a madness, Leaving me within the bars, No witch of the devil was I, No dog or rat or pig of evil did I converse with. My freedom from the bars In the purchase by another did come. Bridget Bishop — The Condemned "I am innocent of a witch." But easy was I to accuse. Disliked by Salem, Mine denial of innocence Upon guilty-assumed ears did fall. Years of vilification carried mine cart, Salem calling for the noose in mine fate. Strung up in front o...

Image Credits: Max_Turbo, Prompt Hunt "Half my skin remembers burning. The other half dreams of snow." Rays hurl down icy spears— Sweat droplets turn to crystalline tears,  The weight of heat pressed against my skin Numbs the nerve stirring within. A furnace pulses—barely alive— My tether to this body’s drive. The asphalt simmers, cracked and scarred, A path to kingdoms frozen and marred. The gleam of grief beneath the rime, A pyre of longing, aching, lost— Reduces breath to cinder and grime, Life splintered by its fragile crust. If fire and ice went to battle Across this chest where storms reside, Would they burn me with their yearning Or freeze me with a will unturning? Would their cancelled-out union At the bones' behest, Melt away my skin in longing or Fracture it beneath winter’s breath? Would I stand between fire and frost, Or crumble into both—undone and lost?