Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Take my hand
and take off into the woods with me.
We can meander
until we find ourselves together,
let love nest in our lovely mess,
and pray the bees turn their ***** to us this honeymoon season.
Let's get cheeky,
toss our clothes
and our cares
into the fire,
and watch the flames lick their lips
at the bountiful harvest
of loose ends and broken heart strings we use for tinder.
The kindling kindly spits embers at us
like ****** on sunflower seed hulls,
cleansed
and ready to be born anew.
I like my colors uppercase,
my thoughts diluted,
worries muted.
Colors so loud
they make you see shapes and swirls,
the ethereal form
of a woman and her pearls
clutched
between her hand and yours.
The clamminess and pressure,
the precious sureness
of your pulsating love language
birthing the pearls
tethered on the other end
to her heart strings,
safe and secure,
sincerely yours,
my mystery girl.
Jasmine Marie Feb 2016
The greedy little ladybugs
eagerly waited to mourn me,

dying
to don their black spots as veils
meant to cover the raw redness of their bloodlust.

Dying...

and hoping that I would return the favor.
Jasmine Marie Nov 2015
I woke up on the right side of the tracks today

...but I still might get hit by a train.
Jasmine Marie Sep 2015
I can't write poems
because they won't give me a pen

because they're afraid that I'll **** myself with it.

But what they don't know
is that I'm not the perfect Venn diagram
between suicidalness
and patience,

that I'm not creative enough
or desperate enough

to use a ballpoint
or a fountain
or a quill

to hang myself
or poison myself
or slit my wrists.

And because they won't give me a pen,
I can't write poems
to
    save
            my
                  own
                         life.
Jasmine Marie Sep 2015
She kept laughing
even though it wasn’t funny,

shrinking in the presence
of two men sent to interrogate her
about her purity,

the red brand hidden under her tongue
that she tried to hide under nervous giggles,
tried to mask with inappropriate joviality.

She tried to desperately communicate what had made her
choose the wrong side of the road
between laughter and sobbing.

She tried
and failed
to make them understand
what had made them think of her as a hysterical and trivial woman,
the stereotypical horrible driver,
unable to stay in her emotional lane.
Jasmine Marie Sep 2015
I was a little black girl
growing up in the land of white picket fences,
lacking my own,
but fenced in by those who had them.

If I was ever to make it over those barriers,
I’d have to let go of a few things.

So I disowned my ***** hair,
and refused to listen to Chris Brown
or eat watermelon or fried chicken in public.

But I was still weighed down by my consciousness of being the “other”,
the outsider trapped on the inside,
the oil slick in the ocean
still not buoyant enough to stay afloat.

And in all of my futile attempts to surpass them,
I just ended up impaling myself
on those white picket fences.
Next page