Wild Embers: Poems of Rebellion, Fire, and Beauty

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Wild Embers: Poems of Rebellion, Fire, and Beauty Page 6

by Gill, Nikita


  don’t feel like they belong to me.

  Days I cannot look men in the eye

  because I do not want them to get

  the wrong idea about me.

  It’s because we are taught

  from an early age

  that we hold within our bodies

  Pandora’s box.

  Something so dangerous

  it does not just affect us,

  it affects everyone we love,

  and everything we care for.

  And we must guard it with strength,

  with determination,

  hiding ourselves from becoming

  an object of lust and sexual appetite.

  Still I cannot help but wonder

  as often as I did as a child.

  Why do we shame Pandora for opening the box,

  when she simply did it out of curiosity?

  Shouldn’t we rather blame the person

  who created a box

  of such terrible power

  as we should blame society

  for making rules for our bodies

  that we never agreed to,

  nor wanted to be our philosophy?

  Temple

  Her body is not your home

  it is a temple

  and you are a pilgrim

  it is kindly giving shelter to.

  And pilgrims know better

  than to destroy the holy thing

  that is providing them with shelter

  away from their home.

  Questions to Ask Yourself

  When was the last time

  someone was kind to you

  without wanting anything

  from you?

  When was the last time

  someone was gentle with your soul

  without asking for something

  in return?

  Value

  I only learned

  the value,

  the weight,

  the density

  of my soul

  when people tried

  to devalue,

  undermine

  and soil it

  with terrible intentions

  with their damning touch.

  Pieces

  I understand

  your need to nurture

  and to give yourself away in pieces.

  But darling,

  some people will take from you

  and give nothing back in return.

  You feel empty souled and heavy hearted,

  it is because you have been robbed

  of your kindness.

  Protect that kind, giving heart,

  give to those who appreciate

  your magnificent soul.

  Time

  What I have spent

  in mourning

  is the price

  I have paid

  for my healing.

  Belonging

  You have belonged

  better in your own arms

  than in anyone else’s.

  Remember you are

  the softest love

  you will ever have.

  Haunted

  We are all preoccupied,

  haunted by the people

  we should be.

  By the ghosts of everything

  we promised ourselves

  as children we would be,

  until we faced life with all its cruelty

  and it turned us into graveyards

  of our dreams, our choices,

  of what should have been our history.

  Nurture

  Yesterday

  I spent the morning

  tending to my wounds

  with the sun’s rays

  and brushing through my scars

  with sweet, honey like words.

  I spent the afternoon

  washing my sins away

  with warm salt water.

  I spent the evening

  in the moonlight

  soothing my mind

  under its calm.

  Later,

  my mother asked me

  what I did that day,

  I told her,

  ‘I healed.

  For my soul,

  like flowers

  needs tending too.’

  Blossom

  Recognise the danger

  of loving someone

  who does not let

  the seeds of your emotions

  blossom

  whether in tears or flowers.

  If they cannot empathise,

  they should not be

  a part of your life.

  My Monsters

  I had hoped one day to find someone

  who loves my monsters,

  the wolves that I feed,

  the demons I sing to sleep

  the tiger that is my caged heart

  the parts of me I do not talk about

  I prayed and wished and yearned

  until I realised that I had already found her

  within me.

  Never Forget

  Woman,

  Forget what anyone tells you.

  Your flaws are beautiful.

  Sit down with them

  and admire them.

  You are permitted to be cruel sometimes.

  And you are allowed to fall apart,

  and feel every emotion

  they tell you not to feel.

  People tell you to be virtuous,

  and ladylike and pretty

  and everything you aren’t

  and were never going to be.

  People forget that women too

  sometimes bare teeth.

  We too feel the need to be hard

  and lustful and angry and taste blood.

  Just because we are soft

  doesn’t mean there aren’t flames

  within us that rise

  a thousand miles above.

  Fuel

  The fuel that runs this spirit, this soul,

  is not easy to understand.

  It is made of fire

  And it is made of water.

  It is made of the kind of darkness

  that will swallow entire stars.

  But it is also made

  of the cold sea waves

  that soothe.

  It is wild too,

  as wild as the birds

  and wolves

  that live in the forest.

  And the way it flies

  when we experience true happiness,

  true freedom

  it is made of the wind too.

  We try to classify ourselves

  into words,

  into labels,

  but how to define

  something as eternal,

  as huge as your soul

  when it is an entire universe

  in and of itself?

  Three Versions of You

  There are three versions of you.

  The one that smiles

  and laughs with others,

  the one that hides

  and cries alone,

  and the one that has the ability

  to achieve greatness.

  These are like three roots

  that emerge from a sapling,

  you must find a way to grow

  into a single, enlightened being

  like a wise old oak,

  and you will bear the fruit

  of every happiness that eludes you.

  Earth

  When you are in pain

  remind yourself

  of the earth and

  how she must have felt

  when she was born.

  Every single one of

  her oceans

  her rivers

  her forests

  and her sky

  must have

  caused her agony

  in creation.

  And from her,

  you will learn this:

  growth is a thing
/>
  of beauty

  and of pain,

  without heartache

  there are no lessons

  to gain.

  Planets and Stars

  And if they berate you

  and push you down

  and break you

  and tell you over and over again

  how you are not enough,

  remember how Pluto

  had once been dissolved

  to being nothingness,

  and is fighting its way back

  into being a planet again.

  You are made of planets

  and stars and seas and oceans.

  And no one can tell them

  what they can and cannot be.

  Just like no one can tell you

  what you can and cannot be.

  Bedtime Stories

  When your daughter asks you to tell her bedtime stories, the kind that you grew up with, I hope you tell her better versions.

  I hope you tell her bedtime stories where the princess isn’t a princess but a knight and she’s going to war with dragons all by herself. I hope you tell her stories where the princess rescues her father’s kingdom from impending doom. I hope you tell her stories where girls save themselves from anything. And no towers and monsters and dragons and kings can ever stop them from doing what they want to do.

  Acknowledgements

  With deepest gratitude to:

  My parents for letting me grow at my own pace and in my own time, the way I need.

  My grandparents for always telling me the best stories and truths.

  My brother for being so supportive and strong when I needed him.

  Emma, for discovering my work, being the absolute best editor anyone could wish for and keeping me inspired always.

  Leanne, Zabiba and Cait for being the dream team of wonder women every author should be blessed with.

  Steve, for being there for me when I had broken and thought would never recover.

  Ivan and Tom for being such incredible humans in a world where that is becoming difficult.

  Clare, for being my sister and my human when I needed one the most.

  Bianca and Chris, for believing in the crazy universes and theories I can only share with them.

  Tree and Jo for being the once-in-a-lifetime friends that they are and who never fail to bring joy and creative life wherever they go.

  And to you, who has never stopped believing in good, and watching the night sky, no matter what life has thrown at you. Thank you for believing always. I hope you find what you are looking for.

  About the Author

  Nikita Gill is a British-Indian writer and poet living in the south of England. With a huge online following, her words have entranced hearts and minds all over the world.

  Follow her work online:

  Instagram: @nikita_gill

  Tumblr: meanwhilepoetry.tumblr.com

  Facebook: nikitagillwrites

  Twitter: @nktgill

  Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.

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