To whoever needs this today,

I’ve noticed you’re not okay.

To be honest I felt the same yesterday

and I know this is cliché

but it’s okay to not be okay.

The road to better is not a straight line

and honestly “better” is hard to define

so please do not make perfection a shrine

and stop telling me you’re fine

if you’re dying inside.

- Lúthien

I dislike religion and sports for the same reason: both are so organized they tend lose their original meaning.

When you start crafting rules - daily rituals / practices - emotional ties - books - institutions - etc. then the original point of your entire endeavor can easily get lost.

Hence when I read or hear about Satanism all I can think is, "Huh, that's cute. What's the difference?"

- You're still creating an organized system

- You're still pushing some kind of belief

- You're still establishing rituals, dogma, books, practices, etc.

Were you meaning to be anti-Christian or anti-establishment? Because the simple answer to that is to just not be Christian or step away from established practices and let go.

Most Satanists I've met are people who thrive on pushing other's buttons by choosing to engage them on the same terms / field. They're reactionary, not revolutionary, and while I don't begrudge their efforts I'm just not sold on the ultimate efficacy of their ideals.

Personally I don't believe in the Bible, Christ, Satan, God, angels, heaven, hell or the rest of it. As far as I'm concerned it's all made up. One culture's made up theory of how things began isn't any more true than another culture who believes the world sits on the back of a cosmic turtle. Honestly I'd rather bet on the turtle guy even if astronomy contradicts him; remember your religion believes in winged and horned people riding on sunbeams for Christ the lich's sake.

An elaboration

Brought to you, by me

From the ones who did the hurting

(Mostly myself, if I'm being honest)

Let's start at the beginning

Tear me apart piece by piece

Take this tapestry down thread by thread

(I was never good at seeing the big picture)

A little girl with too sad eyes, alone, always alone

Even amongst the others, so very much alone

Lost in the woods, lost in her mind, hiding

Hiding from everything, all the damn time

What would the monsters say if they realized

real life was so much scarier?

I don't fear the bogeyman or the ghost in the attic

My fear exists in the unknown reality, what happens if…

My fear was always more existential

Is my time here useless

Does any of it matter

If I disappeared tomorrow, would it change a single thing

I can hear it now, the platitudes, well meaning and chocked full of care

But I don't know if they are true

(Some have told me they aren't)

I have a hard time with reality these days

Unsure if it's what I think it is or if it's something more (or is it less?)

I'm trying to figure myself out and it's taking so much time

Screams fueled you so I learned to whisper;

secrets lining the bottom of my mattress.

Skinny spaces where only myself and my

dreams could fit. Crashing through the

door drunk on rage; you never thought

to look in the places where you couldn’t

get into yourself. 5 seconds…run!

My fingers tips learned how to press

out window screens quicker than

they could open soda cans.

Hide in the trees; deep breathing.

Prayers dancing on my tongue,

tears begging to fall.

They never talk about the

childhood moments that

could ruin you.

ReBecca DeFazio

More Than a Flower

#poetry #poem #writing #poet #writer #trauma

I burnt it down.

Forget the blue

haze we woke up in,

it’s all red now.

I buried my face into

your neck and I cried

so hard I thought

I’d die. Oxygen wasn’t

making it to my brain,

it was tired up,

hand shaped

around my throat

telling me “it’s okay.

We can die today.”

Could you remember?

When I really did want

to die? When I hated

everything inside &

outside? When I’d

starve and bleed for

fun; tracing the damage

I’d done with fingertips

that we’re almost gone?

I don’t want to die anymore.

I’m trying to pull away.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid.

I have so much more I want

to say, the words that could

never escape, the ones

I need to speak to your face…

The universe is calling for pay.

I take everything that is left

(besides myself) and set it aflame.

“Here, here you go!

Have this.

Not me. Not me.

I’m not ready today!”

ReBecca DeFazio

More Than a Flower

#poetry #poem #trauma #abuse #writing

We fell in love fast,

in temporary starlight

after just one kiss.

One soft touch,

one unforgettable

glance. I didn’t

need anything else

in that moment

but now I need you

to want to make

it last. Don’t

just call me

“star seed” and

make me laugh.

Let me see the

way that your heart

beats, tell me

your secrets; let’s

be more than

a shooting star

romance.

ReBecca DeFazio

More Than a Flower

#poetry #poet #poem #writing #love #romance

It’s not raining yet but I can feel it coming;

smell the rain just hovering above me. Yellow

umbrella, Edgar Allen Poe, day dreaming

on a rooftop overlooking a cemetery. I can feel you sitting

behind me, brushing my wild fire hair behind my ear,

your breath is warm; it brings

tears to my eyes. When I turn, instead

of being graced by the sight of your beautiful face,

I’m hit with brutal wind. You told me you would go

but I thought I could fix it. I held you when you cried,

burying my own tears in the pits of my stomach.

I know you know I loved you. I also know it wasn’t enough.

People don’t understand the pain that we

go through when “there’s nothing wrong.” I knew.

I knew you were hurting. Your green eyes used to go

right through me, piercing everything inside. I don’t blame you.

I just miss you.

ReBecca DeFazio

More Than a Flower

#poetry #poem #poet #poems #missingyou #love

the first year of my new life.

i drift,

sort of.

in reality, life

cannot be told in years.

there are always wonderful days,

there are always horrible days,

and most days are just

okay.

with this, i drift.

so

my father gives me his new spare key.

my mother givers me the second key to the mail box,

and i pretend:

the jangle of keys in my pocket is not

the sound of my life

falling apart.