Elephants are the only animal species, known as a fact, to die of a broken heart. Their tough, leather skin can only guard so much; breaking blows from predators and using their sturdy bodies for protection.  But surviving instincts and dealing with sadness are on the opposite sides of the spectrum. Social constructs maintained by female elephants, emotional seeds developed from birth; no wonder females are powerful, at least in elephant herds.  The social constructs of human species, inferiority is an expectation. Motherhood and career balance, sexualization, acid punishments for justice, “Voice for Choice” since women shouldn’t take their bodies in their own hands, rapes unidentified, and youth more beautiful than souls.  Sometimes, I wish I was an elephant.

The fine light slanting through the windows outside
hit upon the shadows in the dusty corner;
corners cut by the butcher's son
leave little left of the slaughtered voices.
I cradle his red stained hands,
leaving the untraceable pleasure under my fingertips.
With the time ticking away,
why does all the time travel to some sort of silent retreat?
We all feel pleasure in being guilty.
I start to yell, like ***** willows on fire
to let my own voices recover.

I'm sorry I called you a pompous conservative,
and I'm sorry I'm not.

I'm sorry my focus is not on your intellectually cultured
examples of real life moments -
your 1988 Mercury Tracer taking its last gulp
of oxygen,
how nothing pans out to be,
your narrow expectations of others.

I'm sorry I don't fit in that canister.  

I'm sorry that others do not gravitate to
your beck and call.
your call is imperious.

I'm sorry my integrity flows in me,
rather than outwards.
I've never been one to exhibit my prizes.

(I'll just write about your buzzing blurbs
and your pick up sticks that amount to
your arrogance and pride.)

I'm sorry I'm a target
and my voice box turns into knots
when I turn the volume up.

I'm sorry that when I find nerves and pulses,
my body wants to notify you that you are
a *****.

I am sorry that I didn't.

eggplant skies and zippers,
this collect call counted.

My buttons were tacky,
and you had the liberty to
push them;
you unraveled them instead,
as i was pushing the ones
of your house phone -

i spent quarters of my time
on you.

Dear lover,
Remember the tattered throw rug we laid on,
when I discovered your birthmark shaped like a tangerine
on the back of your knee?
We were velcro back then.
You told me I had eyes of indigo
and the corners of my cellars smelled of sweet
honeysuckle in the fire months of summer.
That summer, we marinated in our fresh air
that filtered the stale, standstill atmosphere.

Now, the toolbox on the broken shelf,
the set your tired father provided for you,
is rusting at the hinges.
Like you and me.

The saltwater my indigo sight produces, confronts
the bolts and twists,
corroding anything it touches.
Lover, this can be reversed by binding
our loops and hooks together.
Lover, the tools have not yet been used
and only you and I can discover
each other again.

Always,
Me.

Call your truths.
The creator called in sick today,
leaving lessons and sessions limping from the skinny
behavior pumping through the day.
Pull up your britches.
The bumbling from the windowpane
fed the starving wind its own tiredness.
I guess it is homesickness in your head.
What happened here in December
could cross bellowing seas and could crumble
in the concaves  of your bones,
but what happens if you do not get out of bed?

the future intent to touch constellations
have begun to run parallel with my knees.
rip tides have taken sand from my porcelain.
i am now in the in betweens of bruising and airtight
pores leaving nothing to the wolves,
with the pushes and pulls repeating in history textbooks.

indians had the right idea,
respecting the ground they walked upon and holding generosity
as a badge of pride.  we have lost that,
searching for solutions to continue youth and shortcuts to succeed and
disconnecting anyone who may create an obstacle in our regular lives.

we are cowards, ignoring responsibility to feel good for a day.
we are selfish; always receiving to benefit solely our wants and never returning the favor.

i have no future intent to touch constellations,
only to revoke my thoughts on giving up on humanity.