He stands at the crosswalk Impatience leaking from his nail beds As his adjacent light glows a harsh crimson And the world takes an inconvenient forty five seconds to pause.
He takes his iPhone from his jacket pockets Equipped with their own fireplace And begins his minute of promiscuity With perverse and pretentious products, Stealing his stare from empty space Outside his feet.
The woman picking through garbage Is a sad museum exhibition on the Holocaust Presented to an audience who quote the definition of “genocide” From the monotone letters In their tenth grade history books.
Charity echoes like the buzz of mosquitos laying eggs in his ears, His eyes squint as he winces from October cold. Rustling clangs behind him and he pointedly looks away, turning his collar up Seemingly to the wind.
He ignores ***** open palms, His superpowers seeing through skin To poppy filled veins Belonging to a weaponized mind, But little does he know They’ve turned his silence into a bomb And broke his fingers to submission to Keystrokes and card swipes.
The woman claims her treasure, Wipes the grime off the rim of the used paper cup. He puts his headphones in his ears and Loosens the screws in his face, Letting his mouth fall slack and void. The light turns green.
I was a child with apple cheeks when I learned my art was worthless unless kept within a stranger’s frame and I would grow up to realise it never stopped at the development of fine motor skills when toy stores gave me gaudy idols so piercing fluorescent pink dyed my soft palms and turned my fists into regal waves I was too young to imitate and too poor to afford the surgery putting the stick in my *** to fake it.
I had dreams of touching the bottom of Mariana’s Trench and bringing clouds home to my Mom to decorate her kitchen. If you told me then in a few years my life would always centre around whether my blankets were blue or pink when I took my first breaths or be defined by the chasm in my body I didn’t even know I had I’d question not for the first time if adults put their brains in jars when they stopped being kids and dye myself green with grass stains.
Fifteen years later I am a muddled grey, an “anti”, a prefix implying rebellion when all I ever wanted was a better chemistry set, some peace and ******* quiet, and the wholeness I never knew would be so painful to miss.
sometimes I can ignore it. and sometimes it's here always.
When I was a girl I loved cars and Kim Possible And green rocks I’d find in the pebble fillings of our school playgrounds, Because they were rare and therefore special. I read twenty books on gemstones and minerals and stared at the pictures for hours Hoping one day I could be beautiful and solid and reflect the colours You can’t see If you burn your retinas looking directly at the sun.
When I was a girl I became a driveway because I thought If I paved myself with tarmac or cement I’d be hard enough to withstand the weight of everyone around my heart And grounded enough to support myself, But the construction workers forgot to check for groundwater And I caved in when people decided To unapologetically and unquestioningly park their ***** in the handicap spot, Mistaking the importance of my handicaps for the importance of their egos.
When I was a girl I became an asteroid, Seeking a gravitational pull around a star that would give me a name and meaning. But instead I found a black hole, And before I realised my mistake in universal direction Her gravity obliterated me And absorbed whatever the **** was left Of the force I could have been.
When I was a person I became a tree, Rooted to the earth rather than separate And absorbing the light for sustenance. I’ve forgotten what it means to be hardened, But even my cells have walls around them And now I’m as afraid of the ground as I am of the sky And brave enough to reach into both And just maybe find some answers in the crust or clouds.
I want to be pretty. Not in the way magazines do it where everything is tucked, twisted, tuned and polished because I am not an ideal. And I will never be the Mona Lisa with a coyness that leaves people wondering what I've smelled, touched, tasted in every moment of my life, because I am not a treasure. I want to be the kind of pretty where my little sister can see a galaxy of pride in my eyes and know she's ten times more beautiful than I could ever be (or at least she'll know I think so.) I want to be pretty in the way that strangers don't know if I'm kind or powerful or manipulative and are timidly curious that maybe I'm all three. I want to be pretty in the way that I am all three, and so much more. I want to be pretty so that when I'm older I can be half as beautiful as my mom. I want to be pretty so that my friends see honesty in the corners of my eyes and security in my fingertips and hold my gaze with evenness as my equals. I want to be pretty, the kind of pretty where you bring me home, we reflect each other like lighted mirrors and your mom will smile that knowing smile because in three years you'll want to see a ring on my finger and she knows her baby will do it in five. And I want to be pretty so when my hair is damp, my eyeliner cakes my face like charcoal and a towel is wrapped around my body... When I look in that mirror I see fireflies and lightning and not an abandoned house in a quiet street with the attic light left on.
this is a poem I wrote for an upcoming slam poetry night. it will be my second poem ever performed and I am very nervous and excited. please feel free to critique before this Friday (June 21st) and let me know your thoughts! wish me luck!
I want to print letters on paper that bend to form the shape of your hips with ink that fades to match the veins in your wrists; sonnets to make the bard weep and ****** queens put love before country.
You should be reminded every day that when the light glints off your irises in bleary wakefulness a morning glory trembles in envy; that your skin is the perfect canvas for a masterpiece simply because you absorb colour; brightness; life with each step you take and hold it in your pores for the world to gaze.
I want to taste cigarettes on your tongue one day and cool mint the next; on the third you can hold me in place and remind me what it’s like to be grounded, then ******* away when you breathe laughter on my neck.
I want to feel your flighty touch between the blades of my shoulders and know your fear and courage as you mend my splintered glass vertebrae.
I could give you mined stars, but they’d only dim in the presence of your heart (but let’s face it; I can only afford zirconia). Instead I will give you islands of the purest sand and the clearest waters, where you can stand on hope without fear of falling and forget the flavour of defeat; mountains to climb when determination to achieve finally prevails over the comfort of your shell; libraries that solve all your dilemmas yet leave you asking more questions than when you entered.
I will give you the world, for you have given mine.