the scars on my body make me hate everything about myself

but they remind me that i once felt something

There is no better ******* feeling than having someone forget you exist. Having someone miss your calls and ignore your texts. They turn away when you walk by. They hear you calling but look around for an escape. They forget your ******* birthday. They channel all their love for you into someone else. A stranger. You've been there for them even when they were a ***** and had no other friends. When they wanted to end their life and had no one else to talk to. When they barged into your door crying almost every night. And a ******* stranger comes into the play and I feel you slowly slipping away. You love them more. I know. Do you love me at all. If not then say so. Please. I can't take this passive agressive behavior. It's swallowing me whole.  Stop pretending to know me, you don't know ****. You don't know that im a jealous ***** and I'm not happy for you. I want you to leave them. But you seem so content. So much more hopeful than you ever were with me by your side. I hate hate hate watching you two. It hurts. There's a heaving in my chest. I'm just done. Go be happy.

My best friends
are half empty bottles
and kitchen floors.

I look for words in the dark,
My thoughts were trigger by you
My Island soul knows no malice, until
negative thinking roams around in my head
It defines who I am, so I became the poem
And the poem became my affinity
to the nature of poetry
Fire bun, fire bun
Blaze dem Jah, purge dem ya hayed!

They came to my Island to feel
the warmth of the sunshine
as for me I visited a very difficult country
to become its shadow
I look for words in the dark:
My Island soul knows no malice
Only kinship with all life

Had I told the stars
What I felt for you,
They would fall
One by one
And follow me.

I never whittled wicker fiddles
while riddles belittle the middle
class of ***** and elephants.
Irrelevant asides alike another
mother smothered by her brother’s
last lover and uncovered this summer’s
eve. ****** – the reason seasons start
aren’t propelled by a spell in my heart.

the spell in my heart you ask?
its a dry spell for sure,
it crackles with the flames of fire
that whip out like the whips
of elephant trainers,
the way they scare me in place,
and i shake with terror.
but terror arises and smothers
the way mothers have been smothered
by a brother's last lover,
and summer eve will still come.