Poetry By Ciara Fuller

Pat Pilon CC



​
On Healing Your Inner Child


When I was little my mother made me hold onto her pockets in public. There were too many of us kids to keep track of so we all hooked onto her jeans. A sweeping skirt of black headed children orbiting her wherever she went. 

We were a sight to see in grocery stores and restaurants. “What well behaved children” strangers would praise. I’d beam at the thought of being so good, so easily managed by my parents who’s only mistake in life was having too many kids. 

When I got old enough to go to school and could no longer have the sweet comfort of my mothers pockets, I would hold onto my heart instead. Or rather the space on my chest just below my clavicle. I’d cup the air there like a snow globe. An orb that could protect all that was sacred and beautiful, my caged hands there to keep it from shattering. I shielded myself from the discomforts of the anxiety provoking, wide open expanses of the classrooms I was forced to brave. I simultaneously did my best to still be considered good. Always the best behaved girl, the greatest honor I could imagine as a child. 

As I grew up my hands became loose, fell to my sides like too stretched elastic. The memory of what to do still there but the fight was long gone. I tied my loose, rubbery limbs around anyone that would come too close. Anyone willing to fill the space between me and the harshness of the world around me. Anyone who could warm my bed and wrap their strong limbs around me at night. 

When I became old enough I learned to stretch my own arms around me. I practiced bundling myself up in safety and security the way my mother always tried her best to do when I was young. I tried to be okay with the fact that sometimes the world was just harsh and get used to the idea of living in that sharpness. I learned the difference between companionship and love and practiced wanting the latter. I learned to hold space for myself rather than leaning on others to do it for me at night. 

The hardest part has been learning that I am still worthy when I falter. That I can be my own version of good and my imperfections are allowed to be apart of that. I try to allow my mother the same grace and remember that she is only made of flesh and bone just as I am. These days I gather her into my arms as often as I can. 




Ciara is a thirty year old artist that loves to explore different mediums including but not limited to creative writing, poetry, drawing, fiber art, and anything that can catch her attention for long enough. She loves to write about love, loss, mental health struggles, healing the inner child and honestly not much else. When she is not writing or creating art you can find her watching horror movies with her partner, singing mediocrely to herself alone in her home or cuddling with her Sphinx cat Hank.