On Becoming a Raven

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The beautiful edgy woman
with the death stare
is sure I’m a one way door.
The all American girl,
a one shot deal in
illuminated skin.

She would never suspect
that I drink in
crows like the sky,
that I find clarity in chaos.
that I drowned Barbie
in a pool of cement,
that I may look like a black and white
1950’s candy sweet darling.
But inside my heart wears
leather, tattoos, a storm brews
beneath my skin.

The years giving me
color and form.
taking me from
red blush to blood red.
as summer turns to fall.
Underscoring the
damp edges of my soul.
Finally, growing
into my backbone.
I’m the other side of her
projection now.
A soul reborn feral.

Finding beauty in asymmetry.
Nurtured by rainfall that pools
into darkness.
Filing my nails on thorns.

Naive Southern Belle no longer.
The nightingale turned
into a raven with teeth.

-Tosha Michelle

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93 thoughts on “On Becoming a Raven

  1. Growl! You are one fierce, take no one’s B.S. Southern belle, aren’t you? The dark, vivid realities are close to my heart, complete with a harsh/tender vividness that I wasn’t expecting. VERY nicely done, my friend!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ah, that we should all become a raven at some point in our lives (hopefully the sooner the better) …. Excellent poem, Tosha. “A soul born feral” — that’s what I aim for. Have a great weekend! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is my favorite poem of yours. You describe me without knowing me, and yeah, I was raised in the South, too. I went through a similar transformation after some boy in sixth grade ripped out my honest and loving heart over and over. In fact, your story seems to resonate with many women in America. Good job, great poet.

    Liked by 1 person

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