conversations with the moon

a poem for you

Mama Moon, hello.
How are you?
Long time no speak.
Mama Moon, I need help from you.
I want to get to the root of this truth.
Mama Moon, I am afraid.
I am afraid.
I feel so ardently ashamed,
so crippled at such a young and tender age, 
heart flooded with fears and woes.
I miss the sea, Moony. 
I miss how she caresses my body,
the scarred flesh of this vessel 
cradled so safely. 
Why won't they touch me how she does?
Why, Moon? Why?

I am back in that place-
you know the one,
that sweet spot eclipsed 
between sky and between sea.
The one where her legs part upon the horizon
and I am flooded with 
her salty waters so torrentially. 
And the spot isn't so sweet today.
I am tired of them underestimating me. 

Mama Moon, I need to understand the truth.
Why me?
Why her?
Why him?
Why us?
Why this?
This life?
This path?
Why must my heart remain so starved?
It pours out quicker than it flows in
and tonight I am the wound.
Tonight I am pain
and I am my sacred rage.
Is this the birthing of a New Age?

Mama Moon, why is it so hard for men to love me?
I don't think I am hard to love,
but this girl in me,
she no longer knows what to believe.
I've tried my very best to protect her,
but how do I protect her from
the Source that helped forge her?
How do I heal her from him
when he remains so hard, so cold,
so shutdown and distant, 
so resentful toward the existence that is me?
Mama Moon, he makes me think I am too much,
that my dreams are the wrong kind, 
my hopes, my passion, my healing remedies,
that they are dirty and shameful, 
that they taint the image of our families legacy.
Mama Moon, I need the sea. 
She always holds me. 
Mama Moon, release me from this abyss please.
I cannot take the torture,
I need an antidote,
for I am exhausted playing the role of this performer.

I am trying my very best, Mama Moon. 
I feel my feelings.
I share my voice and innermost truths. 
I actualise my dreams into reality.
I embody my sovereignty. 
So why do I still feel the lingering trace
of such wicked and compulsive shame?
I'm the independent woman, 
so much so that I don't even know 
how to soften to a man,
because the last one I softened to, 
he hardened me.
In the hardening,
he chose to plunge his projections into me
and he broke the once soft part of me. 

And the breaking, 
it created a wound

which became an opening

which became access

to deepened,
forbidden,
desired parts of me.

But, Mama Moon, I don't know
if I can have it in me 
to bare my scars
as I lower the guards at my heart,
to risk uniting with another 
who shall hurt me just as the Source 
of this wound continues to carelessly do. 
Mama Moon, show me the strength to see this through. 
Mama Moon, promise me I won't always be loved 
by men who love from their wounds. 

Mama Moon, I love speaking with you. 
Here I can be soft as a crescent, 
ripe as you when you are full. 
Mama Moon, here I can share
that I miss the feel of his hair, 
those curls so black 
they tinge with his soulful hues,
and I can admit
that I miss my own softness 
when I was the woman who once loved
the boy I call Blue.

But see, Mama Moon, 
I am changing now, 
just like you.

I am born again, 
emerging from my ageless rhythms
as I wax in desire 
for a new kind of love.
And yes, Mama Moon, 
I am burdened with the torturous original wound,
but Mama Moon, 
I am braver then my wounds. 

I am thy Womb. 
Pure,
forever changing,
eternal, 
innocent,
true. 

I still miss the sea,
but I can acknowledge that I am thy sea.
I need not wait for love to come to me
when I become the love that violently haunts this body.
I know I have healed a root
when my body rejects the toxin 
that is you, boy I call Blue. 

Mama Moon,
I am love. 
Mama Moon, 
I am not wound. 

Mama Moon,
I am love.
Mama Moon, 
I am not wound. 

The wound is a womb.
The wound is a womb.
The wound is a womb.
The wound is a womb.