When I look up at my ancestors and the struggles of my family tree
I realised I was made from bleeding hands and shattered hope
Pouring their lives from cup to cup, generation to generation
All the things they couldn’t be
I was made by them but also for them
Passing down onto me their tears and  hardships, and all their untold stories
You see, they chose me
To uphold their legacy, unravel their truth
Breath the air and smell the soil of places they could never see
I was made to be everything they weren’t allowed to dream
My path will sooth their pain
I am meant to live loud and carry their sacrifices as my war cry

I woke to the new year with a sense of peace. Waving white flags to the battlefields of months left behind. Finding paths back to myself and turning inward to heal and nurture. Drowning my heart in words of appreciation until everything started feeling right. The warmth of the sun has returned to my soul. I have stopped feeling guilty for putting myself first; for choosing my own happiness.  I don’t love the world less, I’m just finding more love for myself. As soon as I returned to calmer waters, the game changed. Not because things are now perfect, far from it. But I find myself smiling, more and more, every day, for the smallest perfect moments. Isn’t that what it’s all about, being present in your own life.

They may not have met the right way. After a thousand words shared, they knew they found magic. She came unannounced and
he caught her off guard. His soul greeted hers like a long lost friend. The road of their love may not be paved smooth. Her stubborn heart surrendered to his persistent hand. Whispering promises with a mouthful of forevers. She was not the first person he loved. He was not the first person she kissed. They were not afraid of each other’s scars. They held each other with hope and the warmth of forgiveness.
She knew whether his a storm or the sun or distant. They found their miracle.
All her love had a place to finally call home.

I held on so tight to the string that was attached to the storm cloud of our relationship. Afraid that if I let go I will not see the sunshine that was once us.

I held on to the smiles of happier times and the looks of love. I held onto the effortlessness of our beginning and the passion in our kiss.

The cloud became heavier and heavier and some helped me to hold on, others begged me to forget.

I found my strength in remembering.

Every red flag that I painted white. All the dreams that died when you left. I remember the wasted time spent on forlorn hope of empty promises.

It took me awhile to realize that I was holding on to a mistake because I took so long to make it, blinded by the fantasy of what we could be. I cannot continue watering a dead plant.

I’m ready to let go of every ‘what if’.
I’m ready to let go for me, for a heart that doesn’t lie and a love I can believe in.

I try to find something familiar in the stranger staring back at me. I don’t recognize him. I don’t think he ever cared. Event though he made me believe he did. I don’t think he ever loved me. He loved the reflection of the man he saw in my eyes. Loving only the way I loved him. I made him my sun, I made him the stars in my darkness. I gave him my heart. Looking back now. I don’t think I loved him either. I loved having a man on my side, to please, to cater to. He was so broken and I had someone to fix. I can finally move on knowing there is nothing left worth pursuing, because we never really loved.

I lost so many pieces of myself through loving others. Now that I need some for myself, I have nothing left to give. Poetry is my solace and I try to write what I feel. A blank page stares back at me and I could not have described it any better. I crumble the page, holding onto it tightly. Sincerely hoping someone can translate all the empty spaces.

We screamed to be heard, marched to express our rage. To bleed with our fallen sisters, for I am her, and she is me. We all lived each other’s suffering.

The dust has settled now, quiet returned.
Yet I still can’t breath. I am still not safe.

I cry silently for my country. I no longer connect to her. My love and pride is only filled with disappointment. She has left me sad, and empty and afraid.

My son asked me, “Why do you refer to South Africa as a she?” I look at him dumbstruck, he continues, “Perhaps SHE has always been a HE!”

This realization is hard to swallow.
This... scares me half to death.