“Man is not what he thinks he is…”*

When the vessel is breached,
all of its dark matter seeps from
its fresh fractures.
No longer the secure transport
for such highly valued secrets,
its worth now teeters on worthless.
Weathered from unwelcome silence
and worn from
a thousand whips of the tongue—
it rests empty but easy;
never again to be admired
for its heavily cloaked mysteries.
And with every drip from every crack,
it finds solace in all of these
parted shadows;
it finds meaning in
all of this strange new light.

*“…he is what he hides.”

I breathe in all shades of purple
and exhale in all shades of blue;
faded plums to cornflower petals—
a bruised kind of exchange
that makes you look up to the sky
and feel something for no reason.
A contusion I keep fresh for
whenever I let someone
close enough to press it.
And if the pain makes my skin
sing notes only my conscience can hear,
then I’ll write lyrics to match;
they'll say
*I’m alive.
I’m alive.
I’m alive.

“It,” not so easily defined,
catches and clouds in my throat.
Previously shot down
in a blistering passion, and riddled
with disappointment,
vague answers to important questions,
and the kind of wasted possibility
you’ve seen in a used syringe
abandoned by the park fence.
Although it may seem
wounded and unkempt,
I can feel its remaining life
writhing, wondering, and desolate.
So I let it grow, with no hope of air,
and with my eyes closed, it thrives—
sprouting fresh white plumage,
collecting its strength,
pecking, p-peck, pecking
at the back of my tongue
and ******* up my oxygen.
It’s the taste of blood
that makes me come to
before the riotous flutter of feathers
works its way
to the edge of my lips.
I watch as it lifts off, up, out, and away—
wings spread in a striking spectrum
of well-played deception.
It flies, now, fearlessly—
commandeering its own air,
and I breathe easily
knowing that it won’t die
with me.

You’re asleep two inches to my left.
Two of the longest inches
I’ve ever measured with these eyes—
eyes that will not close or rest or fixate
on anything but those
inches that
never used to exist.

And when I finally do
look around the room,
suddenly all of the artwork on the walls
doesn’t seem like mine anymore
and my skin feels foreign—
so foreign.

It’s like I have all of the parts
to keep myself working,
but my instructions are all in Swedish,
and even these detailed diagrams can’t
get me there again.
Figure A looks nothing like it used to
and all of the screws are stripped,
useless, dooming any effort
to keep things together.

I want out of this room—
and what I feel writhing in my ribcage
is no longer something that’s keeping me alive
but this slimy Chest Burster
of conflicted alien emotion
that’s promising to break through my breast
at any moment
if I don’t close my eyes.

Guts…
guts everywhere…
and it won’t be pretty.

But I can’t settle my mind, and
I don’t want to wonder
what you could possibly be dreaming
like I did those thousand times before,
as my cracks continued
to silently branch off in new directions.

So I let him.
I keep my eyes open and I let him
burst through the surface.
The last thing I see is my own matter
flung onto that artwork on my walls,
and my last two hopes are
that my parents know
how much I love them
and that this hungry alien baby
bites off the only thing
you have going for you
with his
otherworldly
sharp set
of teeth.

Momma brought me up to fear
all of those four-letter words.
Two times two combinations that
stirred my interest and made me wonder.
Four-letters that I would
string together and spout off
louder and prouder than
a freshly lit firecracker
spinning and spitting on hot July pavement.
The same four letters that
slapped my fingers, flicked my lips,
lathered my mouth with bitter bar soap
and coated my tongue
with crushed red pepper
until there was nothing left
to touch
to speak
to chew
to taste
but my cautious curiosity surrounding
a apprehension of language that I refused
to acknowledge.

And when I grew up, like most little girls do,
I kept my nose in my books
straitlaced, like Momma asked,
and I learned
about my freedom of speech
and his freedom of speech
and her freedom of speech
and the same freedom of speech
that celebrates our right to use all words
in any order—
four letters or not.
In those same books, I learned that
freedoms come with their own price.
And trust me, I’m no stranger to their
single-syllable ugliness.
It’s their power to elicit such reactions
that makes them such forbidden fruits—
such juicy, delectable flesh at that.

In that same vein, I read the bible too,
and I know
when Eve bit into that apple,
homegirl wanted a little more than to just
keep the doctor away.
She wanted her own mind.
She wanted the same freedom that comes
with those four-letter words,
and she wanted the power
to fire them at Adam as she saw fit.
After all, her mother didn't
give her that mouth—
God himself did, and He knew
how that story would unfold.

But now I’ve grown up
and read a lot of things,
I understand those freedoms.
I respect them and use them
to color my communication as necessary.
I weave them into poetry and stories,
paint them with lush inks
and let them drip down
from once naked pages.

The truth though?
There may be one four letter word
that I’m afraid to speak,
and it has no mother-given stigma at all.
Anyone can tell you, its four letters
have more power than
any curse or swear ever conjured
by the evercreative tongue of man.
I keep it hidden in the thick of my throat;
locked away
until the L
the O
the V
the E
sheds its skin
and transforms into something
that I won’t refuse to acknowledge—
until I find my freedom
to scream it without a care
for its never-ending consequences.

Yeah, Momma should’ve of warned me
about that one.

****.

A little ball of brilliance,
occasional stroke of genius,
has trouble finding Jesus,
but practices her patience.
Her mind? No problems speaking it,
so she never valued silence,
and depending on the season,
her shoes are just a hindrance.
Yet lady follows every sequence
achieving her achievements—
chooses paths not quite so lenient,
drums those patterns not quite so seamless.
Despite the lack of easiness
she never masters the art of grievance,
but lady loves with a vengeance
and makes love with ******* vehemence.
Although lady was obedient
and always vowed him her allegiance,
lady never found it quite convenient
to be inconveniently a convenience.

This I resolute
Salads can't create ****.
More bounce to the ounce.