Watercolor painting of red roses, drying and dying. Petals are scattered around on the ground.

To my dragon makers, breathing fire into the world
Birthing creativity shorn from colorful bolts
Tiny wings unfolding themes designed to inspire the children who need dragon levels of protection
The trans kids. The Frankie Unicorns, learning to love themselves despite a world that refuses to accept them.
You are no less Khaleesi for the stillness of your sewing machine.  You are Mother of Dragons, no matter how many you sew, because the weight of the mother role is never measured by how many children you produce, but by how well you love them.

To the mother without
Struggling to hold per passing years in empty armfuls
Watching the wonder through the lens of science, the humanity of it reduced in shining instruments and waiting rooms with expired magazines
The act of creation feels less personal when it’s so clinical
And you’ve been told that the path to motherhood is supposed to be messy.
Messy sheets, messy kisses, the eagerness of exploration for more messy things
A sensory delight across the dancing surface of our tongues.
But that first kindled flame lost to the failure of science’s shining promise brings a wreckage in uncertainty and personal shame
and you spill the tears and the blood
Each cramp a bullet into your heart because feeling this death is messy
And the anguish is messy
And the heartbreak is messy
Contextualized against the sterility of modern medicine
A dichotomy marking your official transition from Maiden to Mother as the blood washes reset through your body.
Your maiden’s path is ended, as this mess brands you as Mother forever.

To the frightened girl
Forced into maturity too soon by dirty minds and hungry hands
The age of innocence ripped away
Your maidenhood lost to the violence of rape
Your childhood burned at the altar of Father
No magic can undo this damage. No poem can quell the child you had to raise yourself. No words will burn truth into your Mother’s heart, because some stones are too brittle to mark. She’ll never acknowledge how she refused to protect you. She’ll never accept her role in the destruction.
You nursed the wounds yourself. You minded each bruised rib, and every tear- each ripped space
Delicate fingers and handheld mirrors to nurse the axis of your own transition from
Maiden to Mother so young, watching the blood drip onto reflections of his violence
A blurred treble imagery through your tears
Burning dragon scales hot white rage down your cheeks.
I don’t have answers for you. I don’t have promises, or hope, because we do unto others that which we can’t do for ourselves.
But I do love you. Your bravery. Your perseverance. And I’m proud of the mother we have become despite the people who raised you because even broken blooms are beautiful
And beauty is still powerful.

And you are.  Powerful, I mean.

Handwritten, cursive signature says "pea flower tea" in lowercase letters. The flower is a small sketch of a bloom, instead of the word for "flower".
If an idea doesn't explode orgasms of bright sparks, cascading into and setting my own dark places alight, then I probably won't write about it.

Tell me something that moves you.

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