Storytelling
I self-censor constantly. I tell the magic to Stop!
Tell the magic things like Whisper
into the ears of another and
I’m not ready yet. The magic obliges—
that polite, calculating little fucker.
The magic has its tricks, too, this I know, but still,
I fall for it. It whispers to another
in such a way that the message gets lost
or misinterpreted and I stew knowing it could
have been so much better. I brew and I bubble,
and the magic has me in its cauldron and it adds
a touch of this and a touch of that and it stirs me
again and again and it doesn’t stop until
my flesh has melted from my bones,
my skeleton face floating in pool of
sea-foam green and the magic reminds me
that the self I’m censoring cannot die
like the flesh can. The magic talks to me
about decay and I feel the noose of
veins tighten around my neck, the
noose growing tighter and tighter
until I’m flung back into this rotting
cage and I understand that I’m trapped
inside this pulsing cavity until
I learn to surrender, to listen
to the magic and its stories.
Self-Care
There’s a shaking black hole consuming me, tearing me apart, limb by limb and I think it has
something to do with the root chakra. It’s spiraling. Or maybe I’m spiraling. But I think it’s all
the same thing anyway. And anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, something is out of whack,
nothing can anchor or blossom or bloom because I’m this fountain of blood dancing in the wind,
a steady, forceful stream of guts, like my roots are above ground flying away. So I’ve been taking
myself into my arms, whispering magic words and making the time to meditate. See, I’m
grounding! I’m slowing down! This is self-care, man and I’m rocking it so hard. I’ve been saying
things like Namaste because I do honor myself and I honor you and isn’t it a nice way to say
‘hello’? But all this trying isn’t working. I just want the screaming to stop and all this red rage to
vacate. I’m trying to be chill, I’m too strong to cry and this vortex is taking my lifeblood,
stripping me bare. I see what I am now that I’m naked and alone. I scream into the abyss,
Nothing scares me! And suddenly, I’m steady. Suddenly I’m anchoring into the thick mud of The
Mother and this quiet knowing buzzes down through my heart and straight into the tip of my
spine, I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid and purple flowers sprout between my eyes
and this is the blooming. The budding and the rooting in spite of it all, the chaotic embrace of
acceptance, the strength to see it and hold it.
Azia Archer is a mother, writer, maker and, lover living in Minnesota. She is the author of ATOMS & EVERS (dancing girl press, 2017). You can find her online via Twitter @aziaarcher.