The grace of being home is that i no longer have to waste energy on looking okay.
MAGGIE BOWYERThe grace of being home is that i no longer have to waste energy on looking okay.
MAGGIE BOWYERI knew i was losing you, But when you tossed me into the mail box it finally hit me- I was losing me.
MAGGIE BOWYERThe very act of surviving in a world that does nothing but reject you is an act of revolution.
MAGGIE BOWYERThere are days I want to pretend you are just a call away.
MAGGIE BOWYERI’d rather suffer in silence than be subjected to deafening stares. I feel like I’m in an abusive relationship with my body, no one can see the bruises.
MAGGIE BOWYERI’m actually great at being alone. It was being abandoned that was hard.
MAGGIE BOWYERYou’d read between my lines, You’d seen truths I had tried to deny all my life. You had read poems that were tucked neatly under my sheets, words I never meant anyone to read.
MAGGIE BOWYERI’m not sure if I’m to blame for all my relationship failures. But when I look at the wreckage I am the only commonality.
MAGGIE BOWYERBe proud of a body that bares the burden of being buried only to bloom.
MAGGIE BOWYERI hope you grow. I hope you change. It almost didn’t fazed me, when you chose her. You always wanted what you ‘have.
MAGGIE BOWYERYou’ve retracted your rays of warmth. You’ve pulled the clouds to cover sunlight. I think everyone is growing more concerned as the days keep passing and you’re still absent.
MAGGIE BOWYERHave I been buried alive by chronic pain? I can taste the dirt as they put me in the earth, thick on my lips like the honey that drips down my lips.
MAGGIE BOWYERSpeak to me again, so I’m writing another poem I’ll never send.
MAGGIE BOWYERDecember sinks in like a cold shouldered old friend. I try to stretch, reach my toes, but my own bones feel covered in snow.
MAGGIE BOWYERAm i meant to untangle the knots in my own muscles? Do they think its as simple as a few tangles in my own hair?
MAGGIE BOWYERI can scream into every passing storm cloud, but that will not bring you back. I can yell at god as i sob over crinkled pictures, but all i can grasp are memories.
MAGGIE BOWYER