I bottled my guilt and shelved it for another day

The leaves wither
                                        in the way


                                                            I watched you fade

Love is just a red
satin sheet, blinding our view
of what’s underneath.

You’re the bee’s knees between my knees.
Sweet as nectar,
**** like blood.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing
Shopping for sheep,
Shopping for mercy,
Shopping for me.

To the naked eye
You’re just fine
But to the naked touch
Your skins too rough.
Your eyes too beady.
You’ve lost your touch.
The lone wolf in sheep’s clothing,
Doing his bidding.

Can you hear me?
The monster waited outside of my bedroom door.
My body pressed against the floor.
Looking, waiting for someone to save me.

The silence slices through the air.
Mommy didn’t try to scare him away this time.
I felt my heart beat in my ears
and felt his nails caress my hair.

What makes you happy? Why is this happening?
My screams trapped inside my pillow?
My eyes red from tears?
Are you thriving from my fear?

All the King’s horsemen are dead.
The next day, I made my bed like terror never lived.
Tucked in my blankets and fluffed my pillows
erasing the memories of last night’s shadows.

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HELPHELP                     HELPHELP


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HELPhelp

I’m writing this poem because
the cutting glares,
the jagged judgment
from strangers on the street
still chinks my armor—
Exposing my blackened limbs,
splattered with the remnants
of lies once lived.

I’m writing this poem because
I’m still scared
to hold my boyfriend’s
hand in public
because people,
hateful people,
display their disgust,
their disapproval,
their disappointment promptly
on their brow.
As if my life,
my ****** orientation
somehow affects them,
infects them,
injects my deadly
sin in them.

I’m writing this poem because,
yes, this is my boyfriend.
And no, we don’t want to f* you.
And yes, we’re second class citizens.
And no, we didn’t cause 9/11.
And yes, we are exclusive.
And no, God doesn’t hate us.
And yes, we want a family.
And know God doesn’t hate us.

Is it okay if I kiss you when I stagger through the bedroom door?
Is it pathetic that I miss you in those black jeans and red shirt?
What if the board of burden broke?
Would you let me understand the way the light falls, encircling your face?
Can I put my hand here?
Can I feel you again?
Would you let me sit beside you, my hands dancing on your skin?
Do you turn your head and wonder what the white-washed words all meant?
Do you hear the tracks of tears, making trenches down my chin?
Do you hear it?
Can you feel them?
Do you care you caused this feeling?
Can you hear me when I whisper?
Can you just listen?
Does it matter?

I said it first.
I broke the silence.
Shattered the earth,
Echoed the sirens.
I screamed it in the black
Garden of wilted flowers.

I saw the flowers
And broke them first,
Painted them black.
Echoed the silence
Of imaginary sirens,
In the garden of the earth.

I felt the earth,
and smelled the flowers
until I shattered with the sirens.
I echoed the first
Wave of silence
by the garden dressed in black.

I knew the black
devouring the earth
would bring forth silence.
I watered the flowers
And mowed the lawn first,
By the garden through the sirens.

I heard the sirens
Break through the black.
I was happy at first,
To fear to earth.
Now I hear the flowers
in the garden disrupt the silence.

I felt a wave of silence
before I heard the sirens.
I looked to the flowers
For an explanation to the black,
Until I felt the earth,
Unravel in the garden first.

First silence,
Earth’s sirens,
Black flowers.

A flash of gold
blisters my skin,
causing me to retreat
to the shade of the weeping willow.

Bead after bead of salt
forms a darkened necklace
on my grey collar,
my noose of summer.

The once green, now yellow,
slowly dying scenery
reinforces my instinct
to flee inside these wooden boxes.

My shoulders are kissed
with buckets of rays—
they pour down from above
the heads of the trees.

I submerge my wings
up to the first hinge,
the chill of the pond
barely softens the burn.

I grimace as the light reflects,
obscuring my vision.
There’s someone out there
who knows how to change things.

As I shake my feathers dry
and prepare to flee back home,
I glance to the side,
seeing my distorted reflection in the ripples.

Mother Nature is finally happy
with the way we are reacting.