left cup runneth over/

right cup half empty/

if I add my left cup size to my right cup size what will I get/ DD + D = DDD/I've never been great at math/but this is no/miscalculation/

I am 36 DD confined to a 36 D bra/

(D)Disgorges over the underwire/

D--you flaccid beach ball/I wish I could reinflate you/part my mouth around your ******/and/
breathe/

no one can tell/unless I wear a tight bodice/then/you are/obnoxiously evident/

I am afraid of introducing you to my future boyfriend/will he still want to undress me/will he still want to make love to me/

will he still want to touch you/

you/

sea urch/in/the palm of my hand/

even I am hesitant to hold you close to me/

you/

strangulated bagpipe/

moulting pompom/ B-O-O-B/
what's that spell/
what's that spel/
what's that spe/
what's that sp/
what's that s/
what's that/

what is that/

what/

who are you/

you/

waning gibbous/

my metaphors wane, also/it turns out there are only so many euphemisms that can be assigned to an/ill-proportioned breast/

itsy bitsy titsy/

you make me/

sad/

you/

teardrop defying the laws of gravity/

or/
is it the laws of gravity that defy the teardrop/so that it never falls into/
place/

I've noticed only/beautiful/things/
fall/

shooting stars/

autumn/

my left *****

I've grown to love
the sound of my name

swaddled in the contour
of my cupid's bow;

rolling off the tides
of my tongue;

humming
like earthquakes
in my vocal cords

my name--

Jade,
after the precious gemstone.

~

A girl named Jade
beckons the moon
so that it sits
between her palms
brings it closer to earth
through her camera lens,

photographing celestial portraits,
each crater immaculately reproduced.

She grows bouquets
of bluebells in her lungs,
poetic eidos
ringing
from her mouth,

fingers pulsing
against the typewriter
like the oscillation
of a butterfly's wings.

The soft hiss of verse
dissolves on the reader's taste buds,

each stanza an exhalation of
profundity--

unforgettable.

Maybe you were the one
to walk away
but
there will always be
a part of you
that mourns.

Her name etched
onto the surface of your ribs
like they are tombstones

(and they are tombstones).

You lie in wait to be
haunted

(because that's the only way
you'll ever see her again.)


A girl named Jade--

ferociously loyal

but she also declares
her own worth,
recognizing those who will only
abbreviate it.

She is a melodic composition
of sunflower petals and stardust--

but that does not make her fragile;

for her bones
are cast with iron;

mind the crown of
Athenian wisdom;

heart a pounding sea

where water lilies float
and leaches drown;

And of her soul?

A girl named Jade
wears her soul
in an aurora borealis
of purple light

(just as she was always meant to).

⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠️
~

The inconquerable crusade
of the razor

plucking at my nerves
like they are violin strings.

My fingers go numb.

I promise myself
this is a song
I will never sing again

(but, oh, how I love the music).

⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** harassment ⚠️

~
Wearing mirrored sunglasses
is not a fashion statement
but a statement of
*******.

Did you think
they would bury
your sinful leer?

That I would not
catch you staring at me
as I walked
through the parking lot?

That I would happen upon
my own fearfully contorted
reflection
instead of your
girl-hungry glare?

That I would be silent?

For silence is a language
I discarded long ago.

Later,
after blowing me
an array of kisses
through yellowing teeth,
you yell from
your car window
and accuse me of
staring first

when we both know
I just stared back,
my eyes arranged into dog fights.

Lick your lips
at me
like I am prey
and you will
unveil both the She-Beast
and her bite.

I will not be stalked--

Instead,
I stalk away,
spitting the word
"creep"
over my shoulder.

Behind me,
comes the snicker
of a hyena--

but I know
that hyenas
snicker even when they
have been wounded.

I ensnare you
in these words
like the animal
you are.

Remember--

my poetry cuts deeper
than the teeth
of any carnivore.

The poem is
Mightier than the

pervert.

How I'd love
to spray paint the words
"*******!"
upon your white picket fence.

I will destroy
your every
perception
of
p̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶.

Oh,
pardon me.

I retract my statement--

we don't rhyme
where I'm from.

⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** assault, human trafficking, misogyny and religious references some may find offensive. ⚠️

Your mental health is my priority.
__

god creates the
forbidden fruit
but has not yet
deemed it forbidden

historians debate

is it an apple
or a pomegranate


it is a pomegranate  


deeply inspired
god
views it as the prototype
for female genitalia
doomed to rot
beneath the glare of
his brimstone pupils

when cut in half

yonic

engorged with

nectar

burgundy secretions

teardrops of seed
outrun
flesh


and let there be blood

god declares

and let the women
bleed as softly
as the pomegranate

and god looks upon
all that he has made
and it is
very good

until the serpent arrives

but
the serpent is not
a man

is only a devil
because god says so

is only a devil
because she is actually
a woman


reptilian lamina winks
in the amber light
as she scalps the innards
of the pomegranate with her
flickering tongue

"come child

reach for the fruit
like it is your anatomy

and then get the **** outta here

do not let god
fool you into
believing your body
is your own

because it isn't"

arms ache
as they stretch
towards the foliage

a woman is not meant to reach

is not meant
to desire

to attain what she is entitled to

what is deservedly hers


hands meet fruit

hands are immediately
punished

seared upon
their first touch

leaving blistered pirouettes
behind

this is the invention
of the fingerprint

eve's daughters
inherit her burns
until time's end

wear them like jewels
above their knuckles

engaged
perpetual
to the patriarchy

never to forget the hour
their mother was cast out
from the garden of eden


god thunders

your body belongs to me
to man
and his pleasure

a pleasure you do not deserve


isn't it funny how
man and men
can both be plural

while woman just doesn't
have the same ring
as women

because one male
is superior
to every female


women are not made
in the image of god
they are made
in the image of man

god steals Adam's rib
to make eve
from something
that is easily breakable

like *****

like rope-burned neck
at the gallows

like voice


static


and


tuned out


women are not to speak
but are to serve

to beget more men

do you think mary's
pregnancy
was a choice

do you think there
is a reason
god chose a son
and not a daughter

do you think there
is a reason
lot's wife
was not given a name

perhaps
god does not
hate
women

but
he also does not
love
them

the moment
eve tries to reclaim
what is hers

blood

weeps down her thigh

****** bruised
between god's fangs
as if he were
devouring
the pomegranate


there is no softness here


let there be
pain

during
*******
***
childbirth


let there be
pain

from
speculum
gloved fingers

****

let there be
witch trials
trafficked bodies
****


and let it
always
be the woman's fault

let women
always
pay
for the sins of man


perhaps god
did not intend
for it to be this way

perhaps god did not
command
these horrors

but he did not
stop them
either


perhaps
god does not
hate
women

but
he also does not
love
them


and


how can he not love
eve

the very woman
who is named after
the sunset

**

isn't it sad
that eve
was never taught
to capitalize the first letter of her
name

because

not even her name
belonged to her

Atlantis shall rise again.

She will spear through the currents,
until the helms of her cityscapes
cleave the tides
that have entombed her.

In the beginning,
it hurts
as she guillotines
the barnacles
and bottom feeders
congealed upon her brow.

In the beginning,
she bleeds--

she bleeds--

but

she heals.

Shrugs the brine
from her rooftops
and hails over
the men and women
who sunk her Queendom
all those millennia ago.

As the moonlight
crescendos through
the stained glass,
timeworn prophecies
written in the jagged contours
of greek lettering
reveal themselves upon the pillars:

Atlantis shall rise again.

Ophelia's throne reclaimed
only by the one
who has treaded
The Great Deluge
and survived it

only by the one
who is fluent in
the language of drowning
but has not bowed
to the hurricanes

by the one
with hair like raven feathers
and dark eyes spun to gold
when they look into the sunset

by the one
who is named
after a gemstone,
the most precious
of them all--

Atlantis shall rise again

and

I shall rise with Her.