I’m reacquainted with one of my many isolated world’s,
only this time I’m not scurrying to flee to another.
Consequently, intermingling them all together.
The natural phenomena of everyday have always escaped me.
It’s almost a betrayal that I’ve only come to know recently what was amiss.
I daresay, I’ve never felt more at home.
I’ve never felt more awash in hope.

Flying around all the time has its natural implications. Shielded from trifle’s and indignities that could make one ennui. Now, I’m on ground and my stance seem unstable, positively pleading not to turn skyward.
I’m meant to endure or perhaps embrace it all from both vantage point. The ground seems frantic, distressing, deafening, and I’ve avoided it neatly for so long—
the firework’s and funeral’s. . .
I’ve always felt early on that wherever I am, amidst chaos, calamities, God and I will always have this strange privacy. A delirious quality that has kept me geared for battle.
Today, I am terrified— interestingly,
a great show of cordiality.
A sense of newness quietly furnishing my immediate sphere.

Avoidance, elusiveness, does not heed to my soul’s manner of being. I must love forcefully through hysterics, endure or perhaps surrender to hurricane’s when I can no longer prosper, even if my heart reside’s in decrepitude, alas, I must tread carefully, banishing all fear or perhaps in spite of it— whilst also embracing the despairity of it all, for it’s in the knowing that one is without the other.
My life’s duality is an imagined reality I have constructed to feel invisible, thus I have become invisible to the world and my ambitions. A color-blind chameleon.

In fear of what?

No one is trying to fright me but my own chatter, this morose prattle teetering from one interlocutor to the other, as if I’m running away from something only to find—-I’m singularly trying to decipher my mind’s meander.

Sit me alongside a tree, on a bench, swallowing the noiseless repetitive air of a shy afternoon— I’d be joyous.
I don’t need much and perhaps this dire needlessness has kept me restless.
Always searching for something grand to arouse my spirit ‘cause if not this relentless truth that surfaces frankly, violently, everyday that life is indeed blissfully pointless—
will be quite persistent in its attempt to build a cathedral within the halls of my mind. Provoking a cacophony of musings through courtship.
So I nest. I refuse to surrender the attributes of the wind.

The joy of awaking in the same bed everyday,
doing the same things over and over again
can be as thrilling as making love
clothed in a room denied of curtains.
I recollect your shame with my fingers,
maliciously sweet from piecing you back together.

I unfold my eyes before the sun,
outwitting your assault at
the break of dawn,
every time I reach for the rosary,
I cant seem to construct vocabulary.

exuding words out of me,
ratifying the subtlety
of love and fire,
how it violently appear’s
out of nowhere.

I surmise the beauty of chaos,
uncertainty and what it teaches,
persecute all the churches
and all their preaching.

I surrender my thirst for warfare,
your lust atoned for my despair,
planting carnation’s in my soul,
watering the patch where
I became betrothed.

Now, my days are distressingly peaceful,
using oxymoron to describe how I feel about Jesus, and yet it has never felt more insufficient.

We can finally make love all morning.

my heart alighted—
years have passed, I finally
mourn my three angels

Baby, I hear you,
especially when you can’t speak,
—-you are most naked.

I used to have plenty wishes.
Tirelessly praying day and night, remembering a time when I was five, knelt down infront of a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for a miracle.

Unbeknownst to the fact that I am the only one listening, and even I find my words inaudible. Flooding my mouth with tears, catapulting down tired ducts, circumventing those delinquent eyes that have seen enough.

I now lay in a bed of flowers, they have found a home in my skin, roots sprouting, making ground, making love to the sound.
Gardening my soul with delectable cries only I could hear, but this time my words are unforgivingly clear.

Flames arousing, fire stirring in my *****, the pleasure of sculpting my own home, a concrete built on fantasy, a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for an escape.

That child remembers.

I carry that day’s scent on my fingers.
Spewing pangs of pain and joy with every recall. I remember relief.
Relief that finally, I am not the only one burning, ashes zigzag their way to the earth, spectators mildly immersed.
I no longer need to pretend that I am blind just to allow myself to see.
A star witness to my own memory.

God help a family on fire.

My father has burned our home way before mama did. A reflection, a projection of truth has ferociously emerged into a play for our very own eyes to feast- we would have never survived our own characters.

Now, I often find myself oddly silent, ransacking my cerebellum, almost an assault to this new found pendulum, prosecuting myself for not wanting more-
for I no longer fear.

That child remember’s it clear.

And for the first time in my life, in numerous occasions, I am no longer afraid to face my reflection, and the very thought that I am a nobody is monstrously enough in a world where everybody is religiously pleading to be handcuffed.

I spread my legs wide like a canvass, waiting for someone to play with, I am still a child whose hands need blessing.

This flower is finally blossoming, delineating pain and joy, emanating an unfamiliar yet familiar fragrance. It’s no longer a reflection nor a projection of mom’s addiction-
I now pray in providence,
making love out in the open.
Sealing all the vocabularies of life, the decibel of truth has finally found its tune in my very own coming.

I have enough.

God help a woman in love,
God help a woman brave enough to touch herself.