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Ink Jul 2017
Yesterday,
My mother told me bedtime stories
From a book called religion.
She said,

“We chase after glory with a hunger
We’ve only heard of
In the newspapers.
We are the pollution in the streets.
Status stretches our seams from one another,
But our competitive pursuit of love
Holds us together.

But tomorrow,
If we cleanse ourselves,
We’ll be free of this greedy freedom.
We will not be hungry people.
Those in the newspapers
Will be fed the warm honey of God
And love won’t be sought,
It’ll be provided.”

My mother kissed me goodnight.
I prayed to God
To descend heaven onto Earth
If only for me.

Today,
He tells me bedtime stories
From a book called love.
He says,

“I’ve chased after you
With a hunger I’ve never felt
For another.
You are miosis and you divide me,
I am split into my heart and my polluted mind,
Combined with you.
You stitch me together
With the promise of your unwavering
Temporary time.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be free from your intoxicating spell
And will have forgotten who we dreamed of being.
Your love will linger in my mind
With the flavour of your honey lips
But my heart will no longer seek you.”

He kisses me goodnight,
And I pray to Him
To restore the spirit of the world,
Or perhaps only mine.
Ink Jul 2017
he scraped his knee once,
when he was young,
and began to weep as
his blood trickled onto the sidewalk

his mother cleaned him up,
rested his head upon her ever-bruised shoulder,
stroked his hair,
and sang

     hush little baby,
     don't you cry
     it'll all hurt much less
     when you die


she scraped her knee once,
when she grew old,
and began to cry as
her blood trickled onto the floor boards

her son cleaned it up,
rested her head on his sturdy shoulder
stroked her hair,
and sang

     *hush now mama,
     don't you weep
     he's long gone now so
     you can sleep
Ink Jul 2017
when did she lose the grasp on her will?
did she ever have it,
does she want it still?

when did she lose her desire to grow?
did she kindle her dreams,
and blow out her glow?

when did she stop trying to be pretty?
was it when he took her,
when he made her become *****?

when did she stopped caring about her days
were they taken from her,
or did she give them away?
Ink Jul 2017
When you'd come to my window while the world was asleep and whisper into my ear, "You're beautiful,"  I believed you.

I don't think I was, though. I don't think I'll ever be.

I think your magic momentarily blinded me from seeing my own distorted reflection.

I'm ugly. I'm twisted. But that's okay. We all are.

We are all desire and desperation held together with illusive morals.

I know now that your whispers were that of lovely lies.

I was not beautiful and you knew it. I am not beautiful and you love it.
Ink Jul 2017
My name is my submission to male dominance
     I am somebody's daughter,
     somebody's wife.
I willingly call myself so
     It's because I love my father
     I love my husband
And I am honoured to be called
In his name
Usually

But sometimes
When a ray of anger rushes into my heart
By the feminine idea of self-respect
I wonder
     if my father loves me, why is his love trumping of my mother who bore me inside her body for months of restless ease?
     if my husband loves me, why has he never consider calling himself Mr. Mine, where he my husband and I his wife?

But I tuck these thoughts away
They are too balancing of power, too simply different.
I mustn't let the patriarchy hear, or I will dishonour my worth
As a woman.
Ink Apr 2017
his roots are hidden
no one knows where he has been
or what he has been through.
they only know he was elsewhere once-
an elsewhere where experiences are best left hidden

his stem is course
composed of hardening resistance,
stiffened from a difficult childhood.
this is his base, a stability within him.
these lessons hold him up and keep him going

his thorns are soft
they only look rough to give the illusion of being guarded,
but his defenses are easily torn through.
if you touch him, he knows he'll bruise
but he will never make you bleed

his petals are wondrous
their velvet smells of boys' cologne
and are dotted in dewy teardrops.
he flourishes for the hands that dares to stroke him
but the hands only plucks his petals and leave the rest of him behind
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