Empty bellies
Freezing limbs
Sleeping on the sidewalks
Or park bench
No blankets or pillow to keep you warm
A cardboard box as your shelter
Feeling safe is not an option
Fear for your life on the
DARK
C
  O
     L
        D
streets alone
No one to protect you or feel at home

This is my life
I’m not ashamed to say
But could you stop and just pray
Pray for my safety and that I will find shelter and food
But most of all, for me, to just be happy and good...

Why did I get this trait
To forgive so easily, never to hate
You can walk all over me
Stab me in the back
I will get angry and pull away
But I’ll always forgive and come running back
I can’t stay angry or upset with people
Which I guess is a good thing in the long run
   But
     Sometimes
           In the end
It makes you look like a weak person
Even though you are a
            STRONG
Human being for allowing yourself to be open and vulnerable
Keeping your heart open and filled with love for all you are surrounded by in you life

I am slowly learning to use my words—

allowing the ink to besmirch these immaculate fingers
as I weave out my sloppy cursives around feint rules
like hydrangeas climbing lattices in the early summer;

spelling out vulnerability with every bit of hope
left glistening in these swollen, tear-stained eyes,
and unfaltering love with all five letters of his name.

I am slowly learning to use my voice—

heaving out the dust that’s settled over things left unsaid,
and rolling out my tongue to intimately slip off naked truths
my throat has been choking on in the silence of fear;

drawing constellations between the kisses of my lips
to faithfully concede to the phonetics of needs and wants,
and articulate every syllable with the intonation of desire.

So read between the lines, and listen closely—

pick apart my words and unravel the candor in my stutter,
unzip and unbutton every unsent letter I’ve ever written,
and watch me strip down on these pages in poetry-laced lingerie.

I am no longer that bashful submissive sprawled across the bed,
softly moaning for the pleasure of attention and the pain of neglect
under the crippling fear of loss firmly taped over my mouth.

I am slowly learning to ask for what I still and have always wanted—
I'm sorry it took me so long.

I see your smile and your laugh.

It hurts.

Every time I look your way,
it feels like a stab to the chest.

Is it an act? a play?
To make me feel the pain I put you through?

You moved on, rose above
but I'm still here, drowning in the repercussions of our actions,

of my actions.

I'm now just a distant memory to you,

Forgotten