Everyday, I magic myself alive again
from the near death experience of trauma.
I swallow my heart back from
the lump it has become my throat.
I taste my own memories
without the flavour of blood but as poetry.
I learn how to whisper my name
without it sounding like a curse.
I murmer spells to the parts of me
others have found too dangerous to love.
And after this morning ritual
I finally smile at the woman in the mirror.
Tell me again
how healing is not a magical thing.
Tell me again,
how I am not made of sorcery.
(from the collection : Wild Embers : Poems of Rebellion Fire and Beauty)