I can no longer say that I am
jolted.
There is nothing more to be
added
or
mended.
What
came to pass was ice
melted
by the Saharan sun;
annihilated,
forever
vanished.
But even from its infancy when things were good and true,
the foremost duty was
always
truancy.
I can no longer say that I am
jolted:
my indifference is the
green light.

it's different.
not foreign, nor organic.
tongue flicking and suckling at her sweet spots,
she moans and whimpers in response to my touch.
she is a smooth, warm creature
wrapped in alabaster
the epitome of comfort.
i see the appeal.

Wasting the day away
in four walls of eggshell
and sheep-skin blankets
and translucent light
Everything white to emit neutrality

Bathing in media forms obtained from the library
I am a sponge
soaking up these materials
to wring them out as
catharsis

Cognition wanders
to you and the smell of fresh-cut grass
but I cast them away,
turn up the music
and execute a two-step

borderline obsessed,
reach-for-the-stars-over-the-fence
with a side of nausea & self-loathing.
bus side advertisements like Post-It Notes,
Manolos and Choos berserk in clouds of smoke and storms of ***.
lots of ***.
rice pudding, saltine ******* sandwiches
and coloring with breakfast banter
illuminate a beige bed of two sullen indents
draped in love

I like hearing my own voice.

I like its rich tone and sultry air.
Some people called it a little husky for a woman's
but squeaky voices
make people cringe.
I love the feeling of beautiful words rolling off my tongue,
creating intonations that are completely and uniquely
my own,
and re-rehearsing my free verse
so it sounds absolutely perfect
to me.

Yes,
I love hearing my own voice.
I find the greatest joy in listening to my own discourse.
But, sometimes I don't because my voice can also be my
worst enemy.

From a young age,
discrepancies arose in in my communication.
Repetition, prrrrrooooolongation, and ab-   normal stoppages
plagued my speech.
Even with hours of therapy and annunciation drills,
I still couldn't escape
from choking
on my own words.

A quiet child wants nothing more than to demand attention
by speaking boldly.
A voice w-w-worth listening to that is eager to share
hides behind the fear
of stumbling on
little t-teeny letters.
And children are the cruelest of beings.
Their critique on anything abnormal
leaves deep scars.

I wanted to read out loud in class,
be an actress, a poet.
Maybe it's because I love the sound of my own voice,
but with all of these activities revolving around it,
it is laborious to have a
stutter.

A present
of citrus flames and gorgeous warmth
wrapped up in ribbons
of thick gray trimming
nicely disguise her demon-like temperament.
Callused digits and snapping embers
snarling a ferocious alarm,
her gnashing luminous teeth
latch on to unprotected areas and leave a bite
that kills all
curiosity  
behind her
ravenous energy.
Charring and blistering the helpless prey,
her malevolent laughter torments from afar
while she quickly retreats
to her den,
nibbling her bedtime snack.
She dispenses poison like a teenage lover leaves hickeys,
even the most common and revered remedies scarcely pacify the
scars.
And yet she is unapologetically herself,
brazen,
raw.
She is magnetic.
And untouchable.