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My Secret Sisters

Lisa Molina

Once again,
The darkness
Has insidiously
Crept in,
Uninvited.

As always,
I isolate.
This time reading
The poems, books,
And biographies
Of three witch geniuses
Whose spells overtake me.
(Misery loves company)

I do feel connected.
These women entrance
And speak to me.

Sylvia, the self-flagellating perfectionist.
Voices telling her,
“You are a failure
In your marriage,
In your career,
As a mother.”
And after ensuring that her babies were safe,
She took a forever rest.

Virginia,
Insisting on
A room of her own
In which to pour out
Her grief
On paper.
Finally, not wishing
To be a burden
To those she loved.
Becoming one with the water,
That she felt was home.

And Shirley Jackson,
An outcast,
Writing of the horrors
Tucked deep in her soul,
While raising 4 children,
Performing chores.
Tending to her husband.
Ultimately, unable to
Get out of bed
And leave her home.
Physically and mentally,
Finished.

Two of them
Dying by
Suicide.
The other,
Unable to overcome her demons.
Dying at 48 as she took a nap.

All these women
Understand my
Constantly swirling brain,
Full of memories and fears,)
Yearning to be free.)
Paradoxically,
They strengthen and
Encourage me.
Extoling me by name,

“Marie, if there had been
More awareness,
Better treatments,
Different medications,
Less stigma, less shame,
We might have
Survived.
So we beg you,
As your sisters,
Don’t give up.
You still have much
To offer
The world.”

Daily,
These alchemists
who transformed their
Pain into words
Whisper to me,
“Live,
Live,
Live.”

So. I. Live.

And in order to further honor them;

I buy the flowers myself,
Live peacefully in my castle,
And tell myself always,
“I am.”

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