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A little bit of self-acknowledgement

By Elana Waite



All these poems about love and loss and inherent misery

and not one about the way it felt to scream

at the world and all of its swirling fucking blackness

Not a note about how fire walked with me to the edge

about how I dug into the rock

until my fingers bled and my palms were raw

Not one poem about how he came and went and how I still stood

Not one poem naming and shaming

Not a footnote about the fucking terror of being inside

about how it rained and didn’t stop

but how I point blank refused to drown

Barely a synopsis of the cognitive behaviours

the rediscovering, the unlearning and relearning again

Not a morsel of salaciousness and sex

Of feeling so woman, so whole

(So alone, but so fucking whole)

Not a nod to the rich tapestry of me

and how it felt to scream (from the top of my lungs)

at the world and all of its swirling fucking blackness,

and how,

when it screamed back,

I only screamed louder.


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