When the sun rises at the dawn,
hands will rise in a vain attempt to suppress a yawn.
Most will be up and about their day,
I will be wrapped in sleep dreaming of a rainy May.
For all those grave yard shift workers know,
that daylight betrays, in darkness we grow.

what will you do
when you believe love is real
that you are loved
and have been since before your birth?

The essence of life is being there
In tune with your surroundings
Being aware
If you receive but cannot give
Then  life its halved in which
You live
Rhythm of life is a beating heart
In tune with the warmth of the sun
Good and evil are married together
Having lots of fun

Away with your lover

off to the desert.

An oasis devoid of the distraction of Man.

My father wished me a happy birthday.
My father wished me a happy birthday.
My father wished me a happy birthday,
And I wonder if we will ever speak outside of that.

the only funeral i've ever been to was my great-grandmother's. it was alabama in june. i was young, maybe 8 or 9, wearing a church dress and watching strangers offer me comfort and candy.
when the viewing was happening, my oldest sister took us outside and told us stories of mama. how she fled from the phillipines during WWII with a five-year old kid and a dead husband. it felt like a made up story then. still does sometimes.
my father gave a eulogy at the grave sight. he compared my great-grandmother to a magnolia tree. how southern. we prayed. then we ate.
i remember my grandfather crying. sobbing. openly expressing his grief. i remember the look on his face. like it was all over. like existing hurt now that his mother was gone.

that funeral has never ended for me.
i still feel the humidity in my head.
the mourners, unaffected, continuing
staring down into the ditch where she lays
empty condolences from faceless relatives
overlap each other until they are only mumbles
an ongoing buzz of misery.
and when the bells toll, it isn't space
it is the ground in which the box lies
a perpetual reminder that i will join her soon.
grey matter the soil, nerves the worms, and i
the ditch digger. searching for my great-grandmother's
pearls, her soul, my soul.

that funeral has never ended for me.
and when the plank in reason breaks
the worlds i hit will be those of knives
and monsters and crucifixes nailed to
the walls of my childhood bedroom.
shadows envelop me further,
anonymous lovers will invite me to believe
that i have finished knowing yet
i am no where ******* close.
my great-grandmother's shaky hands
will try to catch me as i'm dropping down
but no luck. i will keep falling
until every single person who has
broken my heart and whispered truths into
my skull has ripped every inch of skin
off my body while the mourners watch from
above. i will keep falling as long as this
funeral continues. as long as my life continues.

we named the magnolia tree in our front yard after her. Mama's magnolia. when it blooms, my grandfather comes over and stares at it for a long time. like i, he and silence have wrecked.
solitary. here.

She adjusts her veil,
smoothes her white dress of lace.
Touches up her makeup,
hiding the bruises upon her face.

He drinks all day;
barely ever makes it home.
She has someone who calls her "Mama,"
But she has never felt so alone.

The little girl hides under the table,
her tiny hands covering her ears.
Blocking out the angry screams,
and all the fighting that she hears.

Each slap gets harder,  
etched into her soul,
Mama wants to leave,
but where would they go.

Every hideous word uttered,
more stinging than the last.
What did I do to deserve this torment,
her Mama dares herself to ask.

One day it's too late,
her mama dies by Daddy's hand.
Soon the sirens fade;
the little girl never sees him again.

Mama's little girl grows up thinking,
this is how love is supposed to be.
She finds a man like Daddy,
and soon, history repeats.

First he called her ugly names,
his true colors began to show.
His words she believed,
because what other way did she know.

Mama's little girl,
now has a baby of her own,
A blue-eyed little girl,
to follow in her footsteps when she's grown.

Angry slaps, another curse.
His fist goes through the wall.
The little girl stares in horror,
"Mama, this isn't love at all."

Another fight and shameful bruises,
each word uglier and louder than before.
The pieces of her heart, jagged and torn,
she vows to fix her broken soul.

The girl packs their bags,
running away in the murky night.
She hugs her own little girl close,
as they drive out of sight.

Houses fade in the rearview mirror,
she tosses memories into the wind.
Makes God a promise,
no one will ever hurt Mama's little girl again.

She’s happier when she’s self-harmed.
At least, that’s what she thinks.

She’s more confident when scars are hiding on her body.
Until she looks in a mirror
And realizes what she has done to herself.

She hates herself when she looks in the mirror.
Until that feeling goes away
When someone says, something mean, without knowing her story
That’s when self-hatred comes out and captures her mind.

She’s happier when she’s self-harmed.
All her issues are better when expressed on her skin.
  Crashing back when the high of self-harming is gone.
And it ends up causing her more pain, then she had before.

She likes the world more when she has self-harmed.
It’s filled with so much good
Until something sets her off and feels the need to self-harm again
And she hates it all more than she should once again.

Her mind feels calm, when she self-harms.
Terrified of losing that feeling
She soon wants to self-harm again.

But she can stop any time she wants
She has herself trying to believe this.
Because self-harm takes the pain away.
That is, until all her friends leave.
Because her life revolves around the next time she self-harms again.