at age 10,
my mother pointed
At the small birth mark
On my left knee and said,
"Someone's going to love
You for that one day."

At age 16,
I told her that a boy,
One far away,
Told me I was unloveable.
"He couldn't be more wrong,"
She promised.

At age 19,
She picked up my prescription,
And cried,
"I don't want you
To get your heart broken,
Mary." She sobbed.

The empty encouragements mean nothing,
When a daughter has decided
That the need to be tragically beautiful,
Is more important than the need
To be exceptionally loved.

Body is sorry
Body came from Other Body
Body absorbed symbols
Body combined symbols to describe
What it might be like to be Body
Body saw pictures of its inside
And held an old brain
Body's pain is created there
In Nucleus hell center
A space to water the certifiably insane
Vortex of tubes that will rot into mush
Body released  pheromones once
Body couldn't help but blush

Now Body lays in the dark
Body purrs as memory whirs
About times that Body bruised
And lost its ability to talk about Body
To represent Body
All the times that Body walked on without itself

Compared to a lot of things around me.
I come from a different world, a world within their world.
A third world.
I come from struggles
From contentment
Wonky neighbors, communities, and families.

I’m a result of conflicts.
Of trivial desires and strong feelings.
                            Of a moment.

I originate from peaceful sights on Golden Beach
From bustling streets with peculiar smells
Sweltering summers and rain invested winters
I originate from Red, White and Blue.
                     From the lone star.

I am the effect of hard work.
Of a fighter
A single mother.
The repercussion of strict rules.
Respect branded in me
Obedience molds my body.

I am an original stereotype, insanely mindful.
I strive to forge new roads.
I am conventionally unconventional
I walk the unpaved jungle lighting my own way.

No matter where I go
There’s one thing I’ll always for sure know

I come from  a different world.
A world within their world, a third world.

I will  always have arms to return.
A culture that is my own.
A sense of self that is me.

pageants of pageants
fractals and hype
of faceless terrors and faceless
inside
when rain on corrugated iron
when rain and the kettle boiling

i know i have taken too much time
i have taken time from time to decide
to realise i was only wiser before trying.


Patterns of paradox haunt
the terms of all desire

tussock grass on paths
that cuts the thin skin
and sticks

and a view to nowhere

some leaf in autumn

the hope of finding

Anger flashes red
Joy warms the heart
Shame burns the face
Love dances in the stomach
and twinkles before the eyes
Emotions and senses play

All except fear
Fear grips the throat
Clenches the stomach
Freezes the veins
And darkens the eyes
Fear smells like smoke
Tastes like metal
And sounds like beating drums

Fear does not play
Fear consumes