Sitting alone in my bed,
Anxiously yearning the touch of something different.

Contemplating about differences,
Visualizing the new experiences,
Mesmerizing about different beauties,
Fantasizing the new opportunities,
About women of different cultures,
Ethnicity and upbringing.

Pay no mind to the language barrier,
As our body speak that universal language,
We can have intellectual conversations,
We can have passionate  interactions.
Lets's ponder with deep imagination,
As we diversify this love, ignore it's discrepancies,
So girls of all colors come closer and get drawn like crayola,
As we paint this picture to see what we can make of this blend of colors.

Envision this:
Background music effectively babysitting my thoughts as I listen,
Laying under the moon, 
With that special person. 
Inwardly rehearsing, 
Every move to make, 
Opportunities to take,
Intaking the passion from the air she breathes out, 
Creating chemistry not even Einstein could figure out.

This love should be an equal opportunity,
You plus me that's all that should matter.

So would you explore your heart?
Release the stereotypes that keep you in the dark?
As darkness falls,
Our temperatures rise.
A reflection of moonlight shimmers in those eyes.
They tell me your secrets;
I tell you no lies.

What lies beneath your skin will be ugliness' demise.
Ironic, in the dark you see me for who I truly am.
And I tell you who you truly are.
So far. So good.
So deep, it goes beneath your beauty,
It goes beyond whatever society will tell you not to do with me.

Tonight your biases shall not rule thee,
For I am king of this pride.
Swallow your pride and swallow my pride.
Release the wait of inhibition and take this ride.

Our inner flames fueled by passion shall light our way.
They say, we are blind but it is only in darkness that we truly see.

Give up shallow emotions, let your heart be free.
Immerse yourself in this reality:
My love is river, all else is only skin deep.

She had a frazzled sort of look about her. Wispy hair fell into her eyes which were watering from the allergies she often complained about, the ones that caused her nosebleeds so heavy, she'd nearly faint from blood loss. But beneath her red eyes and curly hair was this pale, pink cheeked girl who listened to  punk and wrinkled her nose. She was like an antique. Something worn down, beautiful and full of secrets and memories, that you'd find under a pile of books in a dark corner. She was sarcastic, flighty and judgmental, constantly angry with the world and culture that she'd been ****** into. She spent all her time forcing beauty and laughter into people's lives so they wouldn't see the shattered pieces of the world and subsequently herself that she tried to hide behind her back. Others might see this as sly or deceitful but it wasn't. Her lies were the selfless kind, if such exist. She wanted to protect people from the world that wore her down so cruelly and quickly, she became an antique person by the age of fifteen. This frazzled, determined, lovely girl may not change the world, but she changed my life.

My body is not poetry.
My spine is curled up
into a question mark
from centuries of insecurity
and the weight of the
worlds trapped in my skull.

My thighs are canvases for
atlases, road maps, and
interstate highways that lead to
nowhere. Or everywhere.
They’re big enough for both.

Not when my hands
are the kind that are meant to tremble
not the kind meant to be held.

My hips are not made
for you to skim
your hands over.
They are guideposts:
between (here) and (here)
lies a dreadfully broken girl.

My body is not poetry.
Because it won’t last as long as
dried ink on yellowed, musty pages.
Because it breaks more easily
than the cracked spines
of a beloved, well-read book.
Because it is not something that
soothes the soul and
makes my heart ache all at once.

My body is not poetry.*
Mostly because I’m
just a little afraid
of anybody who would be able
to read me so well
to put me into words.

I speak to you in rare moments of sleep
As shipping news speaks of conquered waves

You wear the look of women in coastal cafes
Who have read between the fishing headlines
And cast away puzzle pages
Tea-ring-stained
For weeks
Yet swear daily they do not weep

I speak to you in those rare moments of sleep
As ships speak in song to lighthouse light

Yet I know that when awake
Should in time come the chance
To   really   speak
My words may not rise
From any squall-safe
Harboured-heart place  

But undelivered with the dead litter of shore  
Cling as whelk would
To the frame of some drift door        
I can neither close
Or in clinging
Allow tides

To erase