I'm fine
I'm not a beauty queen
I'm just a normal woman
I'm a good person
I'm honest.

Yes I've got a boyfriend again
That's why I haven't talked to my friends
I talk to him when I can
I know what type of woman I am
I know what I can do and it's for my boyfriend
I am not with him at this moment
I have not done anything yet; He is overseas.

That's like right now I live with my ex-love
and he doesn't get what he wants.
He also wants to remarry me that ain't going to happen.
I know he loves me again but I just can't!
I don't love him.

We were married before it, ain't like he never seen me before
I don't do that with every guy just him
We started dating when I was 13
I had made love in 15 with my ex-love.

He was my first love first everything
And my first heartbreak and the first person to smash my heart
He smashed my heart that night!
He's broken my heart into pieces
He is the reason why I won't love again

But we share the only bed in the place
That's not a good thing especially when I live with him
There is no couch or another bed in his place
We sleep in the same bed. We don't do anything
Yea I do, that's when I want
If he had it his way he would never go without it
Like I said that's not much, I don't love him.

That's a long story and a very hurtful story
I don't tell people my life stories from him using them against me
I don't trust men as far as I can throw
The only friends I tell are close to me or they are important to me
My boyfriend knows that that's all who needs to know
I don't let people in my world that's how I stay safe from men.

Every guy that I left always wants me back
That's what they want, and what they get is different
That’s my life story.

There is no time
As you time passes through
Eye's perpetual needle
And a basic understanding,
      There are no seasons
That resonate forms and certain
Needs,
   There is not enough time
For anger and happinesses,
Only that it remains equal
In the chaos of a a hurried
Mind,
   A flutter into tornadic
Expressions,
A desire into a yearning fire,
Indirectly the season gives
A feel,
The cold winter she walked
Into the wind and her hair did
Not move, time does not beat
There, but arches into
A future,
    That summer the sweat
Off your brow bought the car
Of a dream in a dream,
   Carefully time snuck by
And perfected a moment's
Theory,
    A man needs both time and
Stillness to recognise that
All is fleeting,
And the only thing real
Is the mist,
In the mist
A temporal moan.

A mountain hemorrhages cliffs of
sunlight just outside my dark front door;
it is the fifth wonder of my universe,
a morning marvel
framed by coffee
and cigarette smoke; it is
love, with hair of lush pine needles,
and a chest like an arm of dirt:

in your too-old two old
river-bed shoes,
in your dry desert clothing,
why does the fog beat you
like an immovable heart?

How can something so old
be dying; is the sky an
unforgiving wrinkle

more canyon than harbor,
or ship without captain

are we all
all we are
at the end, or is there more?

I may have never been the light of your life but you were mine. Recently when people voice the word ‘therapy’, it elicits in me a feral sort of anger. It's a routine: rage, panic, and exhaustion.

My mother’s quaint china dishes have found a steady home on my sienna wooden floors. Please understand why I taste acid and rancid flesh when I think of your hazel eyes and strong arms. My Tracy Chapman record echoes monotonously out to me, but the blood simmering in the grooves of my brain fills my ears with a sound that displeases my auditory senses. It sounds like static from a broken radio. The wind howls through the cracks of my windows and sometimes it cajoles the door open. Somehow, my penchant for you never fails to disappoint me as my eyes flit up for the briefest second to see if you've arrived. I use my teacups as wine flutes and my heart as a pincushion, but maybe your broad shoulders and firm chest could shelter me from myself. My desk stands proudly in the corner of the room. Enrobed in dust and half-eaten pizza slices, it stands proof of what you've done to me. Mr. Teddy is taking a nap. His cottony, soft, white insides poke out in tufts from under the patchwork.
Another one bites the dust.

The poison seeps through the gaps in between my teeth and panic swallows me like an ocean. If you want, I would clad your feet in my shoes but I have never been one to chase after something so I cannot fathom how to explain to you why they have holes on their soles, much like my soul. The towel pools at my feet as I feel the heat behind my eyelids start to cool. Exhaustion sweeps over me like a summer breeze. I can hear fast cars as the put me to sleep.
It smells like petrichor; wet earth after the storm.

She has no mirror
but where flirt the leaves with the pond
she comes in the cool of noon
mixing the dark of her hair
with the summer shade
dipping into glass green water
her toes and far above
and all the pond sees
encrypts within the bubbles of rainbow
that only her clothes
swelled in awe
can read.