No one ever gave me an inch
so to take my mile
I had to carve it out
myself out of blood and dust
No one would have said I was nice about it
I never felt I could be
lest I found myself picked up
and tossed like so much trash
So I was called bossy
What a self destructive cycle
they wove for me.
There’s an old friend that calls to me
their hands are shoved into pockets
dark half-circles have settled on their face
and their shoes are worn
They want a place to crash again
This traveling stain has gone by many names
but what I used to call them
the pit in my stomach
always seemed more descriptive
than simply calling them self loathing.
They seem weak now
but under dirtied clothes is hard shell
shell, like a seed that once planted it roots in me
and burrowed till they had climbed my throat
and coated my insides in black gooey hate
they left a sticky residue,
the kind that resists being scrubbed off raw fingertips
and stuck on me post-it notes of resentful thoughts
reminding me that even though they’re gone now
they were once there.
So I started writing my own notes
stickers that filled my mind
then my neck, and chest, and finally
Little words that accumulated till I opened my mouth and spewed them forward
I repeated them, until I believed them.
One keeps cropping up,
a small slip of syllables that teaches me to act,
regardless of doubt
I take it out of my leather jacket now,
and pass it on to this old friend
reading it out loud as I do,
and saying, clear and fearless,
“No point but the one I choose to make.”
Alone is a trench you dig by yourself.
Love is a garden that I dug with you.
We shower each other in compliments,
like rose petals that bloomed
so recently, so beautifully,
we just had to pick them.
We couldn't help it,
we admired them so.
Alone is a blue sky without a cloud in sight,
[and it misses them so.]
Love is the lightning and the rain in a thunderstorm.
They too, complement each other,
one conducting the other
in a symphony, full of gorgeous crashes,
one can't help but
be in love,
with what we've become.
Love takes work and kindness.
light doesn't break
scattering into spectrums of possibilities
because not one shade is exactly alike
a progression of symphonies
each note hitting a different hertz
that frequently call out to one another
when we choose to follow a melody
to saunter after a piper that doesn't exist
we bathe, splash, and twirl through
the beam we chose dance in
My compassion is a steel blade,
so thin and sharp,
I could cut you
and you would not know.
You would bleed
and be unaware.
Blades are tools
as well as weapons.
They are the tool of healers,
and I operate with consent.
Fear of the unknown is not compassion,
so every slice is done with consciousness.
No matter how much
I wish to spare you pain,
it must be done with consciousness.
The title is a quote taken from a letter from a sensei of mine. He was attempting to describe my philosophy, and the poem flowed from there.
scent of dust
a scent so rare
Old school poetry.
Drip drip drip
goes the tap
screaming fills the room
a rush of feet
the dripping continues
join us join us
echo the ghosts
of my grandmother’s past
Drip drip drip
It just won’t stop
Just as suddenly as it began
Screaming fades abruptly
my hairs stand on end
haunting my dreams
for the rest of my nights
Drip drip drip
there she lies
a terrified look
frozen in her eyes
indelible is the sound of the tap
An old school poem, based on a Malorie Blackman ghost story by the same name.