it is almost impossible
to love someone
and feel stability
simultaneously;
to be able to feel
rich waves of honey
climaxing in your heart
(climaxing in your bed)
cannot be one of sanity.
i don’t feel in neutrality -
i never have

i bathe in milk
an alkaline to bleach
the acidic stench of stress
out of my poor pores

i lie in a rose garden
the hummingbird flying over me
to cleanse the noise
of the distant city

sitting pretty
with cucumbers over my eyelids
while a lady caresses my nailbeds
with a file

it seems menial;
that this is supposed to make me
feel better on the outside
when inside i’m in denial

self care is not just
an instagrammable bath bomb
exploding in the consumer’s face
like the feeling exploding in the feeler

it’s realer.
i washed today,
brushed my teeth today
got dressed today

i’m impressed today.
today i am a phenomenal woman.
today i am a higher being;
i am maya

sitting in her mansion
sipping on her sweet tea
smiling sweetly;
reminiscing on her millions.

“Do you want to get out of here?”
Well, I thought that meant you wanted me
Now I fear
This moment we’ve all waited to see
If I could keep
Your interest in me

My small sentence
Spoken softly to the bathtub ledge
Describing the difference between anger
And the love of a stranger
As nothing at all.

To the person I will one day love
I know they will say you are my other half
But know that I was complete
Long before you came along
Because I had to ensure
That if you wrecked me
I would be whole enough
To fix myself without you
But although my heart is complete
I would still like you to have a piece of it

Her heart is made of aluminium glass
Yet a slip can break it into pieces
Her soul is painted with beautiful colors
yet she still doesn't know who she is
Her body is made of stone
Yet a wind can turn her into ashes

Wildflowers get picked up and stepped on,
But a new one will always blossom.
Wildflowers can grow everywhere
But few people can notice their beauty
Wildflowers can grow anywhere
And they chose to grow inside of her.

to be a writer..

it’s an awfully emotional adventure.

it doesn’t mean
you’ve always got a pen in hand.
it also doesn’t mean
you’ve got too many voices in your head.

to be a writer
means to fall in love young,
and to never fall out of love.
because like a true love,
the words will never leave you
or never let you down.

to be a writer
means that you want it;
you crave the aligned phrases,
the scratch of lead on paper,
the depth of the ink soaking in.
the beauty that the words leave behind.

to be a writer
means that you need it,
that without it,
you’re not sure how you’d speak
without a voice.
it means that early in the morning,
when your cheeks are stained with tears
and your heart is trembling
within its cage
the flow of words
coming from inside
is the only thing that can save you.

to be a writer..

is an awfully wonderful adventure.

I expected the spaces left to shrink
I thought my body'd forget your square shape
I hoped my holed heart wouldn't be left agape
Boldly naive, a baby dressed in pink
I hate you for leaving me stuck to think
You were the only one here not an ape
I don't want to patch my canyon with tape
But no choice I have, you left in a blink
Now, it's my duty to bat my lashes
First to mop the crystal geyser of tears
Secondly, coquettishly-over to him
Who he is matters not, only passion.
Hotel? Motel? I'm sick of these affairs.
Alone, I must remain-with him in Grimm.