I undress her with my words
Seductive tease of soliloquy
Will her world be captured in rhyme?

I.
Box fans and mowers drone below,
distant traffic murmurs through summer’s heat.
Memory presses: teeth and old thunder.
Regret. Punishment. Hope. Repeat.

My ears ring with histories,
sometimes cicadas, sometimes sermons,
sometimes her humming, barefoot by the creek,
sometimes the sting of my father’s belt.

Sunlight slants through bloated magnolia leaves,
thick as tongues,
slick with old rain.
It stains the walls with a color like yolk,
like aging joy.

II.
I wake in moonlight,
before the rumble.
Step barefoot onto concrete
still warm from the last sun.

The sky is full of stubborn stars,
hung from the last funeral.
I watch. I wait.
No birds yet. No breeze.
I stay.

I tell myself this is peace.
But the silence knows better.

I drown in time
Drudge through white noise
The minute is a albatross
It erodes my day
My visceral attempts to breath
Why won"t sunlight linger in my dreams

I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.

The urge to disappear
when your tears refuse to fall
yet your smile fades slowly.
hopeful eyes, drowning in silence,
held back by unspoken pain.
when your voice stays locked behind the cage-
and you realise...
This hurts more than any sword could ever **** you

There was once a child
born beneath the sign
of unburial.

She carried too much—
not in arms
but in tethered memory.
Things with no names,
only weights.

A cracked watch
that ticked in reverse.
A button from a coat
that no one had worn
in three generations.

A feather
from a bird
dreamt once
by her grandmother,
never seen again.

She believed—
as those marked by absence do—
that keeping meant remembering,
and remembering meant
nothing would vanish.

Others crossed her path,
offered to help unfasten the straps.
She refused.
They did not know
which talismans bled
and which only looked like wounds.

So she walked.
Through salt seasons,
through bone-rattling frost,
through forests with no floor
and skies that never asked her name.

The bag grew heavier.
She grew cleverer.
Silent.

And then—
on a day that wasn’t special,
under a sun that wasn’t kind—
she set it down.
Not as surrender.
As an experiment.

The earth did not crack.
The ghosts did not scatter.
Her shadow did not abandon her.

She sifted the contents.
Some were dust.
Some were still singing.
Some curled away like dried petals
and begged to be left behind.

She took a key.
She took the bell.
She left the rest
for the moss.

She walked on.

Not lighter, exactly—
but less governed
by the shape
of her grief.

Pull this thread
and I unravel
My eloquence
becomes a frantic search
Scars and sinue
This cold hand of reality
That digs my grave
I wane in the wind
My breathe I reclaim
Fragile games we play
Fragility melds in this solemn gray

You said you wanted to jump
Off the porch
Instead you sat out there and smoked

You asked me to braid your hair but
I didn’t know how to,
You bedazzled the TV remote with red rhinestones

I listened to you rap in Spanish
I let you make me ramen–
Our shared comfort food

I didn’t know how to reply when
You called me beautiful
I wrote poetry in the dark
So the light wouldn’t wake you
I stayed in our room
Because the door would have creaked
If I left
And I didn’t want to startle you
We’d just been watching horror movies
Plus I knew you needed some rest
You were tired/hungry/cold from living on the streets
Yet somehow you had the energy
To bother taking care of me

And I wanted to do the same for you