Inspiration

Birthing Butterfly Wings

/ Hyacinth Hale / Leave a comment
Photo by Akshay Patil on Pexels.com
No one asks a butterfly how she gets her wings, 
She is hidden in her cocoon, 
And they marvel at her metamorphosis, 
As she breaks through her shell, 
Stretching her colored scars for all to see, 
No longer a grub that crawls on her belly, 
But a beautiful mystical fairy that flies, 
That they pray will grace them with a kiss on their skin,

They would love to catch her, but she is elusive, 
A trauma response from when she was in the cocoon, 
And predators tried to clip her wings before they grew, 
The people, they will say, “look at her now! I knew her when she was belly aching!”, 
But they didn’t want to stay for the bone breaking lonely transformation,

No, she had to climb the tree; she had to build her cocoon, 
She had to go deep into the depths of her darkness, 
And form her new identity, slowly growing new appendages, 
Thoughtfully painting her wings, after isolation, 
After sometimes rapid and sometimes slow but always painful growth, 
After surviving predators jostling her cocoon at her most vulnerable 
After enduring nature’s hierarchy stating she is fragile, 
Stating she is tiny, stating she is insignificant,

It is then, the butterfly can burst through her cocoon, 
And spread her wings defying all expectations, 
She unfurls her new manifesto wings for the bystanders 
Who stopped to see the spectacle she performs, 
She knows now she no longer belongs on the ground, 
She no longer laments over her old scars, 
She made them a tapestry, 
Beguiling and enchanting even the most persnickety naysayer,
Bringing the joy of a child back to their heart, 
And hope that they too can overcome 
What grounds them into the dirt

~ By Hyacinth Hale

Solitary Woman

/ Hyacinth Hale / Leave a comment
Photo by Ali Pazani on Pexels.com
I am a solitary woman whose love languages 
Are touch and quality time,
And no amount of loving myself or touching myself 
Or taking myself on dates because I deserve a good time too, 
Will negate the hole I feel of not having a man,

The hole that can only be filled by a man’s hands,
His hands stretched out like a clock openly embracing my body,
Oh, how I wish I could stop time’s persistent flow, 
If only to drink in the stimuli of your body, 
And absorb it on a cellular level like warm sunshine, 
and have the salty sea spray envelope my body at the beach!

I want your voice played on a loop,
I want to feel the constant, 
Yet unpredictable pressure of your fingers 
Running alongside my skin, 
I want the image of your face, 
And the dilation of your eyes 
Seared in the back of my brain, 
I want the scent of your cologne mixed 
With your sweat and pheromones wafting 
Like lazy jazz notes hanging in the air, 
I want the taste of your tongue warm and sweet 
Like grilled pineapple to be the last taste I ever taste,
I want to freeze time, 
But its persnickety cadence persists, 
And your hands keep missing mine, 
We can’t seem to catch our breath, 
Yet alone each other,

I am a solitary woman whose love languages 
Are touch and quality time, 
I’ve learned to adapt, 
I have learned to wrap myself in a weighted blanket, 
It is warm and pressurized, 
But I can still feel the coldness 
Of the metal washers sewn in,

 I have learned to say my inner dialogue out loud, 
I may seem crazy, but I feel a little less lonely in the moment, 
I distract myself with smells of lit candles like Tahitian Dreams 
And Mahogany Coconut, watch the flame flicker, and the aroma waft
 Until the fury light extinguishes slowly sinking the smell to the ground, 
I buy take out for two if only 
To have my lunch prepared for the next day,
 Or if I am feeling brave, I grab a table for one, 
And I distract myself by scrolling fake Instagram photos, 
If I want to hear praise, I will spend three hours getting ready 
To go for a bagel, and take four hundred photos 
Just to feel the dopamine hits of people pressing the like button,

I am a solitary woman, 
I learned self-defense, and make my own money, 
I have plumbers and mechanics on speed dial, 
I do my own car research, and I found my own voice 
 To tell off whomever needs a good tongue lashing, 
But my love languages are touch and quality time, 
And loving myself is not the same as 
Someone loving me the way I crave to be loved 
Strong and gentle urgent and timeless. 
I am a solitary woman in need of the love of a man,
 And I am not ashamed

By Hyacinth Hale