Trite.

Stones and footprints, photo by Rachel B. Baxter

It’s trite, sometimes,
what I write about,
and my fear is that my words
can’t stand on their own two legs
without an Instagram filter,
a middle school thesaurus makeover,
or cheap theatrics.
I am still the Valkyrie
of the words spoken in my home and in my mind,
but the outside world holds dangers
that will even threaten a being
with wings and a shield and a sword.
There is chaos beyond my front stoop
where words mean everything and nothing,
where the beats of your heart and the songs of your spirit
must be cut into pieces and served up cold.

“I am the valkyrie of the words spoken in this home — fragility of feather, strength of sword and shield, my verses forever etched in my armor.” — excerpt from Mother Scorpion.