Happy Birthday to Me!

Happy Birthday to me! It may be the shortest day of the year for those of us who live in the Southern Hemisphere but the sun is shining and I am blessed and thankful to be another year further along in my journey ❤️

To celebrate, I’m taking 40% off The Unravelled Heart from today until the end of June if you buy directly through my website, link below.

Also, June 23rd is PTSD Awareness Day in Australia, something very close to my heart, so if there’s anyone in your life who has suffered abuse or trauma, please do consider buying a copy for them. There is so much healing in art, in words, in poetry, in the power of telling our stories.

“But in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I’m saying? Does it also feel this way to you?”

Much love ❤️

https://kathyparker.com.au/the-unravelled-heart/

Fearless

And though I have not
been well taught
in the ways of love,
what I do know
is I will never again
settle for one
who does not see
both the brilliance
and destruction of me,
and chooses to love
without fear of either.

~ © Kathy Parker ~

Love Is Rarely More Than a Fatal Blow

leaving 1.jpg

I.
When the boy with the green eyes comes looking for my body, I let him.
He is absent-minded hands upon the soft curves of my flesh; he takes in
the body but not the girl and I pretend it is enough for I am desperate to
believe these crumbs he offers will sustain my malnourished bones until
I know what it feels like to be loved and not just settled for.
Frantic he will leave before I can convince him to stay, I turn my body
into a war-zone; torture it, starve it, persecute it for every morsel it
consumes and for every proportion of this womanly mass that does not
shrink from the underskirts of my skin and if my body is the only currency
of which I have to saddle his pockets then I will punish it into flawless
compliance and maybe then it will no longer be her name that rises and falls
with every breath he kisses into my lungs; rife with the taste of her memory
which he cannot drown beneath the sinkholes of his eyes where I am too
afraid to swim. My body fades until all that encases these organs is the
corpse-like skin of a hollow beggar and it weeps its song of victory,
Please stay, please stay, please stay,” but still, he does not know the sound
of my name on his tongue and my heart becomes a wasteland as vacant as the
hollows of my cheeks but I tell myself this is love because even though his laces
are tied he has not yet left and I am still cleaning the mess from the ones who
came before and slit my wrists with the sharp edge of their goodbyes; whose
blood of abandonment I used to finger-paint the words of my story upon the
walls of my house when I needed to remind my heart of what it had not yet
learned: Everyone you love, leaves. But hope is a diehard weapon and though
his finger rests on the trigger I convince myself he will be
the restoration not the destruction;
the healing, and not the wound.

II.
Love is rarely more than a fatal blow
we never see coming.

III.
When the boy with the green eyes no longer comes looking for my body,
I write a new story upon the walls of my house:
Leave first, before they leave you.

Sunday Ramblings and Wide Open Spaces

It’s the last day of school holidays here, and as much as I love the time with my babies home, I am so restless at this point to get back into routine, back into writing, and to find some much needed solitude. It seems I’ve become quite accustomed to my working week, which is spent mostly on my own; having others around 24/7 – even my own children – has proven challenging, and I have found my only sanity has been stealing away each afternoon for a long bike ride in this glorious autumn sunshine.

Riding this afternoon, I was reflecting on my journey of wanting to live a more wholehearted life, and how exercise has been such a huge part of that – a huge part of who I am, of what ignites my joy and passion, what makes me come alive, what propels my motivation and focus, and also how vital it has been for managing my PTSD.

Recently I’ve had a couple of injuries – a torn disc in my lower back and a torn hamstring, both of which have seen me unable to exercise for a fairly long period of time. During these times of no exercise, much of the wholehearted living thing has gone amiss; instead I have only managed to live half-heartedly. I lost my joy and passion, my energy and motivation, and my mental health struggled immensely – I feel as though in not being able to do something I love so much, I lost a huge part of myself.

My love of exercise has never been about the exercise itself. I don’t know what I weigh nor do I care what size my clothes are – in this Instagram world I’m not interested in competing to be the fittest or the thinnest, there are already enough women pitting themselves against one other rather than cheering each other along to be the best version of ourselves we can be. I refuse to let numbers define my worth and I will raise my daughters to know their value lies in so much more than this world’s unattainable standard of beauty.

Exercise for me is about movement, energy, freedom, exuberance. It’s soaking sunshine into my bones and gulping fresh air into my lungs. It’s about feeling healthy and strong in body, spirit and mind; finding wide open spaces where I can renew my spirit and connect once more to myself (which, let’s face it, usually means connecting to the 14 year-old tomboy in me who loved to fang around on BMX tracks – long live her zealous spirit). It’s about doing something I love; taking time out of my busy, responsible life which mostly involves caring for other people, and choosing to care for myself. It’s about deliberately choosing to live a wholehearted life – to embrace life and not just survive it.

After what has been quite a long recovery time, I’m so damn thankful and overjoyed to be able to exercise again (which, SA peeps, can’t recommend the amazing people at Adelaide Advanced Physiotherapy enough), to feel like myself once more, to find joy in each day again.

“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” ~ Howard Thurman.

Here’s to a fresh new shiny term and embracing each day with wholehearted abandon.

K x

Leave Me Here In The Wilderness

Leave me here in the wilderness,

let me wander upon lost paths

where fallen limbs and bracken

cause my feet to stumble astray,

deeper down the unknown roads

that lead me further into myself.

Let my soul become entangled

with ivy and creeper and vine

as it twines through damp forest

and twists around my sad anguish.

Let moss grow upon my shadows

until sunlight warms my bitter grief.

Let me grope through darkness,

and my heart taste its sour wrath

as it unleashes, wild and savage,

upon the fury of its torn injustice,

until there is only hushed silence

broken by the weep of surrender.

Let my spirit be found crushed

in valleys of dust and drought.

Let me be consumed with thirst

as I wait upon winds of the earth

to breathe life into my dry bones

and mend me back to abundance.

Do not take my hand and lead me

from this journey I choose to abide,

but leave me here in the wilderness

where for now, I must live untamed,

for I am young, and so very broken,

and there is still much to be learned.

~ © Kathy Parker ~

The Unravelled Heart, a profoundly true reflection on trauma, abuse, love, loss and healing, now available worldwide on Amazon http://amzn.to/2BIvFhp

Your Story is What the World is Waiting For

And don’t ever be afraid to tell your story.

Don’t ever feel it is too small, too insignificant, too humble.

Don’t ever feel your voice is too faint to be heard. That your words are too shaky to hold their own ground.

The world is already over-crowded with voices of self-importance; voices that make noise but not change. Tired of people telling us what to believe, we put our earphones in and tune them out. We are no longer interested in the ideas and opinions of others; our hearts ache for something more. For connection. For relationship. For something that parallels what we understand about our own lives. To be part of something bigger than ourselves.

Our hearts ache to hear stories.

Stories of those who have fallen, but who withstood all odds to hold steady on their feet once more. Who have shed blood to overcome an adversity of which we still falter in the wake of our mistakes. Whose knees are scraped from the crawl and who have earned every battle scar etched on their triumphant faces and who no longer raise the flag of a victim or a survivor, but instead, a goddamn warrior.

We long to hear stories of those who have gone before and paved the way for us, who have endured transformation to become a catalyst for a new uprising of which our hearts are drawn to. We long to know we are not alone in our suffering, that our pain is validated, that our struggle is understood.

We long to know we are human.

Our stories are what makes us human.

They are the thread that weaves us together, words that collapse from our tongues and carry down through the generations. Our history, our legacy.

I know you feel inadequate, unqualified. I know you feel your voice will never be heard amongst those who shout from the rooftops and mountains. But, my love, your quiet and gentle voice will be what makes the world stop still, and listen. There is power in your story; in the truth you speak to the world; so vulnerable yet so unashamed.

Courage: to speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.

Find courage, dear one.

For just as it only takes one stone to create a ripple, so it only takes one voice to create a revolution.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker ~

Do Not Love A Girl Like Me

And you, with lips that bleed with the sacrifice of your heart.

I beg of you not to love me.

Find a girl whose contours do not snag beneath your touch, who has not traded her tears for thorns, her skin for armour.

A girl who does not forgo sleep to map escape routes on the back of her eyelids, but instead makes her home below the shelter of your collarbones.

Make sure her constitution has been stitched together with straight lines and even spaces; that she has not been woven remiss with paradox and inconsistency, both the hurricane and the shelter, the illness and the cure.

A girl who does not bleed alcohol and exist in metaphor.

Whose stories can be read in journals impressed with seaside daisies and late summer memories, not scrawled in jagged scars upon her skin.

A girl whose worth is not rich in the currency of shame and apologies.

Who does not wrap her fragile shell in a bandage of words, hoping to hold intact chalky bones that threaten to crumble away with sadness.

Who says she is fine.

She is not fine.

Do not believe the poets; the ones who tell you there is beauty in brokenness, who swathe ugly truths in pretty words and label it art, like virtuosity will ever be enough to soak the bloodstains off the floor.

There is no beauty in brokenness.

Only broken inhabits brokenness.

Do not love a girl like me, a girl too inept to be trusted with such precarious birth.

Who does not understand love when it has only been spelled as goodbye.

Who knows the taste of trust only as kisses from a razor-blade tongue.

Who does not know how to exist without one foot stretched out, holding the door ajar.

Do not love a girl like me who drapes herself in garments of tough pretence to belie the vulnerability beneath.

A girl like me, whose untamed heart betrays me with its wild abandon at the wanting in your eyes; who does not know how to love in half-measure but only with the magnitude of the entire universe that gathers within my flesh.

No, do not love a girl like me.

Find a girl who is sure-footed and able.

For I,

I am too familiar with my own heart; the delicate glass of which it is fashioned, so susceptible to causing us both to bleed should it shatter beneath the weight of your fingers.

What I mean to say is, I am so afraid of love,

I would rather not love at all.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker 2018 ~

Affliction Vs Apathy

You always preferred a clean kitchen.

I watch out the window as day slips

on her black dress and begins to flirt

with the evening sky.

I wonder what you’d think now, if you

were here to see the way bottles line

every surface.

I have placed them in straight lines, at

least, and I know you would appreciate

the juxtaposition. You always did care

for order. For a standard of perfection I

could only ever trail behind.

There is quite a lot of them now.

135, to be exact.

One for every day since we last spoke.

One for every day since you ceased to

exist to me.

I use the corks to plug the bullet holes in

my heart you left to bleed; you’d think I’d

have known better than to allow a fully-

automatic weapon like you into my house.

But slow learning runs inside my veins; the

legacy of women who have come before

me still trying to prove they are worthy of

the love of a father who only ever wanted

a son.

The last yellow light settles in the kitchen.

The bottles capture it, throw patterns on

the wall.

One day I will have enough glass

to crush these bottles into sand and I will

fill my house with ashes of you; squelch

it between my toes and imagine myself

on the holiday we always planned but

never took.

The one we said we’d spend days on

the beach absorbing alcohol and sun,

and nights we’d spend fucking against

walls, against doors, against the apathy

we swore would never be found beneath

the layers of our skin.

I wish it had been apathy that had caused

our destruction; a silent cancer that would

have sucked the marrow from our bones

until we’d have had nothing left to care

with, and could have just faded inside our

voiceless grief. Instead our graves lie

scrawled with the blood of the rampage

that had lain dormant inside you for long

enough, buried beneath the ocean of

sorries that never quite reached your

eyes. You always held rage inside you;

a force of nature that could never be

anticipated or predicted.

You always told me it was my fault.

I started to believe you.

Bottle 136 rests in my hand.

I let it fall to the ground and watch it shatter.

The glass is not soft like sand, but pointed

and jagged, like the eggshells that would

cut my feet whenever you were near.

I press my toes into the glass.

Blood trickles onto the floorboards and

I am relieved to find I am alive, after all.

Perhaps affliction is better than apathy.

I tell the walls you are dead to me.

They still whisper your name.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker ~

The Unravelled Heart, a profoundly true reflection on trauma, abuse, love, loss and healing, now available worldwide on Amazon http://amzn.to/2BIvFhp

Day Twenty-Six #poemadayfeb: Fear

I never used to be scared of the dark

but the walls gather close around me

and steal my breath into their porous

lungs and I am shrinking, shrinking in

this place that leaves me trying to fix

my collapsed chest with handfuls of

scarcity. The night goes too long and

I’m not sure whether I am more afraid

to sleep or not sleep; either way I am

forced into combat against fears I try

and defeat yet I’m held defeated, and

inside these six degrees of separation

you still remain the one thing in this

world I can never seem to reach.

Do you remember the day you left?

You asked when I was going to let you

love me.

I don’t need you.

I don’t need you.

I don’t need you.

Still I keep the porch light on, just incase.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker // Fear ~

Day Twenty-Six #poemadayfeb: Fear

Day Twenty-Five #poemadayfeb: Sound

I closed the door behind me

and in that moment I heard

my self-worth as it echoed

down to my daughters and

granddaughters and nothing

was ever so beautiful as the

sound of that final goodbye.

Day Twenty-Five #poemadayfeb: Sound