Close to her heart, she held an amber dropper bottle of Essence of Calendula, which was soaking up the well of emotions she had chosen not to give way to.
She lay on the kitchen floor in the light of a flickering autumn-spice candle, with an old pen and the back page of a printed recipe she wished she had never tried. It plagued her mind, the sheer lack of consideration for his emotions she had exhibited. This can't be how all those neurotypical, non-empaths experience life every day, can it? Not caring a bit for the souls in front of them. Wielding such power in a way that would completely bypass the belief of eternal and infinite worth within each person, no matter their baggage. It can't possibly be moral to stay completely firm in one's boundaries at the expense of emotionally hurting another. Her gut ached at the discomfort of implementing self-respect. She wrote.
*boundaries*
What a word.
To the not-a-girl-but-not-yet-a-woman who is experiencing anger for the first time in her twenty-seven years, boundaries are fierce, ruthless, fiery-hot arrows flying toward the shiny red apple balancing on the head of the woman who had masqueraded far too many balls.
torchless secret caverns
broken hearts
nonreturnable moments, and genetics alike
an apology two decades later, once the apple had already rotted to its core
*boundaries*
To the exhausted, empathic, confused, empowered mother lying on the kitchen floor, boundaries are stone-cold castle walls, reaching up into the night sky before a moon that was once full.
No longer forest-play, there is a kingdom to defend.
She earned her throne with the very same tears that now circle the castle in a mote of protection. Inside are the sovereign heirs who hold the sacred wisdom of war because of their mother's blood-soaked locs. And yet they hold the sacred innocence and clares of childhood because of their mother's lost naivety.
Looming castle walls in the cold October air, one cunning choice away from being scaled and breached. She doesn't sleep. She is Guard as much as Queen or Mother.
Protecting her own sovereignty protects her children's sovereign life-experience.
Is her shield up in defense against a true threat? Is it another C-PTSD, nervous system response to stressful life components? Or does her Highest Self command an airtight castle? All options are equally valid here.
Friday Oct 10 2025
She lay on the kitchen floor in the light of a flickering autumn-spice candle, with an old pen and the back page of a printed recipe she wished she had never tried. It plagued her mind, the sheer lack of consideration for his emotions she had exhibited. This can't be how all those neurotypical, non-empaths experience life every day, can it? Not caring a bit for the souls in front of them. Wielding such power in a way that would completely bypass the belief of eternal and infinite worth within each person, no matter their baggage. It can't possibly be moral to stay completely firm in one's boundaries at the expense of emotionally hurting another. Her gut ached at the discomfort of implementing self-respect. She wrote.
What a word.
To the not-a-girl-but-not-yet-a-woman who is experiencing anger for the first time in her twenty-seven years, boundaries are fierce, ruthless, fiery-hot arrows flying toward the shiny red apple balancing on the head of the woman who had masqueraded far too many balls.
torchless secret caverns
broken hearts
nonreturnable moments, and genetics alike
an apology two decades later, once the apple had already rotted to its core
To the exhausted, empathic, confused, empowered mother lying on the kitchen floor, boundaries are stone-cold castle walls, reaching up into the night sky before a moon that was once full.
No longer forest-play, there is a kingdom to defend.
She earned her throne with the very same tears that now circle the castle in a mote of protection. Inside are the sovereign heirs who hold the sacred wisdom of war because of their mother's blood-soaked locs. And yet they hold the sacred innocence and clares of childhood because of their mother's lost naivety.
Looming castle walls in the cold October air, one cunning choice away from being scaled and breached. She doesn't sleep. She is Guard as much as Queen or Mother.
Protecting her own sovereignty protects her children's sovereign life-experience.
Is her shield up in defense against a true threat? Is it another C-PTSD, nervous system response to stressful life components? Or does her Highest Self command an airtight castle? All options are equally valid here.