Spending a month in a hospital teaches you a lot about people.
The doctor that told me to shave my head or she wouldn't treat me,
The nurses that spent forever chatting to me
And giving me supportive advice about how my illness doesn't define me.
The woman who was given a terminal cancer sentence
And chose not to pay attention to it and defied it anyway.
How she sat next to me on my bed,
Told me that all suffering is valid,
And just because I'm not dying, doesn't mean I don't get to complain.
How she complains more about her skin problems
Than she ever complained about her cancer,
And that's OK, because pain rarely follows rules.
I never even learned her name,
But she gave me the words I hold most closely to me
On those days when I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I'm allowed to scream and shout and rage against the pain
And the unfairness of it happening to me.
I just have to make sure I know where the line is
Between giving my darkness a voice and pitying myself.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Waters pour
From clouds on high
Restoring life
To a world so dry
I long to be reborn
Like the grass and grain
So I kick off my shoes
To dance with the rain
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
So many thoughts feelings expressions emotions
locked behind deadpan eyes and a voice that's toneless.
A mountain of a person consolidated to this form.
A body unimpressive.
A face unexpressive.
The chaos upstairs requires all of my attention.
Conversing takes a back-seat which is why I seem distant.
Too many things to say only leaves me in silence.
I don't know how or where to begin.
If only I could let you inside to weather the storm
maybe you could make sense of this nonsense and bring me to port.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.
We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.
My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:
*We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.
In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.*
years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
often isn’t.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 5:48 AM UTC
Die into me,
Every kiss is a prayer
As I whisper a prophesy
To your body.
The night will keep us
As we constellate our passion.
I die into you,
I await you on the other side,
There open my soul
And read the inscription:
He died a thousand times,
Reborn inside her,
The Sacrificial Lover.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
"You look good in blue,"
He said
And she never wore another color again.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
Who are we to say
that a love is not to be?
That a love does not belong
and can never be set free?
Who are we to think
that a kind is not our people?
That a kind is far beneath us
and will never be as equal?
Who are we to feel
that a face can look unusual?
That a face must be a canvas
and be painted to be beautiful?
Who are we to judge?
To say love is prohibited?
To think below of others?
To feel minds can be limited?
©
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
as talons tear apart the skin
I find myself aroused again
the sting I feel is quite sublime
no solid reason why I find
I wonder
have I always been this way ?
or am I simply going insane ?
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC
I watched my father scrunch his eyebrows together
whenever my mother said something he didn't like,
his impatience seeping through his dark skin,
apparent in the way he turned his body away
as if he wanted to run from all this
but he's trapped now, trapped forever.
I listened as my mother told me she did not want to stay
and my brother and I are the only things anchoring her unto this godforsaken house
of peeling white paint and crumbling walls and endless shouts and burning words.
I watched them hold each other when things got tough
and I knew it wasn't because of love—
it was because they were the nearest things to each other.
At a very young age I knew love was something that dissolves,
a flower you water everyday,
a story you never stop writing,
And some people, they don't know,
that they have stopped watering,
and they're running out of ink, only on page 3.
Little girl me knew.
Big girl me continues to watch it unfold,
dead petals in their hair
and dark ink between their fingers—
dry
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC