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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.
Jasmine Marie Sep 2015
You could be my Jericho,

and I,

your blasphemous lover.
Jasmine Marie Sep 2015
you remind me a lot of your brother.
same delicate temperament,

but i could break through your walls with a twitch of my garish fingers.

you could be my Jericho
and i could be your blasphemous lover.
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