In the profound darkness of a frigid night, I can hear his labored breathing. He appeared to be worn out yesterday. Today, I find myself fatigued by the wounds of love, exhausted by my inability to trust in this concept we call love completely.
Love is meant to be gentle; love is meant to be forgiving. While he longs to cuddle, I simply desire to rest. Inspiration for a poem strikes me unexpectedly, often during the most mundane moments.

I cherish his smile; I enjoy the sensation of his rough, unshaven stubble against my skin. As I write, I continually reinvent myself—Joy Harjo. Yet, with each word, I also remember the struggles and painful moments I’ve encountered. I think back to betrayal—Annie Lander.
It wasn't merely infidelity; it was the haunting vision of my partner engaging intimately with others, eliciting their cries.

My restless thoughts persist in posing questions that elude answers. Still, I have sought divine protection for my well-being. May my fears transform into verses that help me grasp why the most agonizing experience on this earth is to love a man.

“Sometimes, giving all of your love isn't much to save a good soul; it demands soul for a soul as fair payment.” — Gurusharan Singh

Did I have years of experience, or was it just a mix of daily habits? I must have learned something, as my confidence has gone down. Memories that hurt come back to me suddenly, and I struggle with them every day in my love life and at work.

Here I am, getting older, feeling like I don’t really care about what happens after I’m gone. Just put me to rest under a tree.

Talk to me, my inner child. Connect with me like you used to. Were you helping me or leading me astray? I have many stories to share. Those who tell the best stories often pay close attention to their craft.

Speak to me; I was so naive and lost during those uncertain times. What did I have to go through to make a living? Those voices, those faces, those people who hurt me—where are they now? I’m still dealing with the trauma.

Speak to me, my inner child. My poetic voice mixes with my feelings in slow motion. Coyote and I walk the streets of Brooklyn fearlessly. I proudly embrace my blackness by choice. Coyote, I would rather walk alongside the tiger.

Now they watch everything I do—my online posts, my TikTok messages. Once again, no edits, just AI filters. Lamb of God, I look to you.
I was once scared of my inner child.

Love is thinner than a piece of cheesecloth,
transparent yet confusing to navigate.
More conservative than a political debate
More hearts are broken than mended
.
I am determined to search globally for an end to this love.
We desire it fiercely and embrace our fate to heal humanity.

Love may be a fleeting remedy,  
Yet we pursue it with fervent desire,  
Yearning to feel complete.

How many times must someone
How many times must we yearn to feel complete?  
How many times will we be let down by this thing called love?  
He loves me, or he doesn’t.  
I love him, but he chooses to reject my advances.  
His heart clearly desires someone else.

Love is a cross that many of us must bear.
It can be a profound and challenging burden to carry.
However, I feel empathy for its victims in relation to what we call love.
Love cannot be controlled or confined.

In the chill of a dreary April day,
I find myself wandering through the dimness,
My eyes were straining in the absence of light.
As I approach the door, a sense of familiarity washes over me, pulling me back to a time of comfort and solace.
The thought of retreating to the inviting embrace of my warm bed beckons me like a gentle siren, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that surrounds me.
In this moment, I realize that in this vast expanse of uncertainty, there is only one clear path to follow—one that leads back to the refuge of my blankets and dreams.

69 Ways to Please Your Lovers**

Amidst the silence, a sound arose, and there we were, lost in each other as I wove a poem of passion, letting your strokes guide my words and capturing the magic of our moment.

Yet, a wave of guilt washes over me: I haven’t reached that blissful peak. This realization leaves my poem incomplete. I crave that 70th way to truly satisfy my lover and make this experience unforgettable.

Nine, five, one, three—  
Is that truly all that remains of you?  
What fragments of me linger in your mind?  
If only you would take a moment to slow down  
And gaze upon the world that unfolds before you.  

Your way of life is shrouded in enigma.  
Your sixth sense, paired with your keen understanding of women,  
Collapses like a carefully arranged stack of dominoes —  
So unsettling, so uncertain, so trapped in its own confines.  

Please, help me unravel the intricacies of your thoughts.  
You've often claimed that men are creatures of folly,  
Incapable of taming their wild impulses,  
As many chase after fleeting desires  
And consume whatever is placed before them: so you said.  
Sister, sister, if only you could just slow down,  
For we are already halfway through this journey.  

When a past love transforms into merely a chapter  
In the book of our lives,  
It signals that you have reached the finish line of that phase.  
His number still drifts endlessly in my mind—  

Nine, five, one, three, is all that you have left of him.  
Please, help me grasp the depths of it all,  
Why is it so difficult to truly love?

," I felt my fingernails digging into his back during a profoundly charged moment. It was striking to see tears streaming down the face of this strong man—he was unguarded!
He sighed deeply and reached his ****** again and again.
This was not just a display of sportsmanship;
it was a clear expression of inner turmoil