Finding a lover is effortless
for some people.
They only want a few things:
Someone attractive, kind,
funny or rich.
What I want,
what I desire,
is so much more.
An intelligent mind
that wakes up thoughts in me
I didn't realize were hibernating.
I want to converse, analyze and debate
without being conscious of
the sun rising and falling
between our words.
I want to make a witty remark
at a coffee shop
so he can reply sarcastically
just for me to jab back immediately
and him to comeback back playfully
until we're both laughing
the whole store staring
and we leave
I want our hands to stitch together perfectly
like two lost puzzle pieces;
one found under the couch cushion
one found in a junk drawer
the rest of the puzzle already thrown
these two pieces remain
and they fit
I want to fall in love together
then together fall in love with
art, museums, songs, poems
T.V shows, radio jingles,
greek food, backroads,
our mutual hatred for pop culture,
doing the dishes (as long as he washes and I dry)
wrong turns, piled up laundry, life.
Just fall in love with life.
I want to hurt with him
I want to save the world with him
I want to meet, see, understand
and experience all that is foreign
I feel that it will only take us meeting
and it'll only be history and happiness from then on.
It's just a matter of if a love like that could ever be
and if a love like that could ever be for me.
it's a lazy morning
natural light invades
through the curtain cracks
the warmth outside
seeps through the walls
every ray of sun kisses
every particle of earth
there's a crisp salt breeze
i watch the ocean dance
and it rocks my mind
into a trance
a trance so deep
i suddenly have
the most absurd thought
i am okay
for the love of God.
Don’t be attractive.
But don’t be unattractive either.
Be a male.
(Why are female Gynos always the worst?!)
But not a straight man who is secretly checking me out.
But also not a gay man who is secretly disgusted by me.
Don’t look so excited to see me when I come in for an appointment.
But when I walk in the door
don’t furrow your eyebrows while whispering
to your secretary through a shield you’ve just created
with my vagina-history-paperwork.
After decades of Gynecology practice
have we yet to find an alternative to cold, hard, metal utensils?!
Instead of you asking, wouldn’t a red line of tape be a better map
than your suddenly creepy voice
asking the most vulnerable part of me
to scoot "closer, closer, a liiiiiiitle bit closer, right there"
to your face.
Also, please provide larger cups for the urine sample.
PSA: OURS DOESN'T WORK LIKE YOURS!
It’s not a faucet that runs a straight steady stream.
It’s more like a water hose...
that the dog bit into.
And last, but definitely not least.
Oh God please,
Don’t tell me on my way out
“I look forward to seeing you at your next appointment!”
Because I do not
and I will not
feel the same.
The past will fade.
Every mistake the magician’s paper,
time the lighter.
You will get past the pain.
Our lives are a pencil drawing.
The impacts are dark lead
but the artist or time or you
will shade and fade
them all away to smooth grey.
The past is a story we tell ourselves.
Some nights it will feel like a horror story
but do not let this fade you.
Put down the blade you’re holding
to your own paper wrist.
No. Your past will not erase.
But the past will fade.
My Professor told me to leave his class room.
I lifted my bowed head
"Leave my classroom",
“I don’t tolerate
in my lectures.
So if you’re going to be on your phone
be on your phone elsewhere.”
I didn’t have the energy to rebuttal
“Professor Hughes, I wasn’t looking at my phone.”
I simply did as I was asked
Funny how my head was bowed
because I was looking down
at the scars I carved into my wrists
laying in bed
demons anchoring my chest
feeling pressed into my mattress
mumbling through the paralysis
“I have to go to class today
I can’t skip again”
“But your bed is so warm
and you’re a piece of shit anyway”
my depression taunted
“If you would have just swallowed that bottle of pills
last night like I told you
we wouldn’t be in this mess”
As I’m walking back to my dorm,
the parallel of last night
and this morning
smacks me like a wooden bat to the back:
Life is like a college class;
you don’t always want to be a part of it,
yet alone participate.
Sometimes just showing up
is all you can muster up that day.
And you might do something or even nothing
and someone who doesn’t like that something or nothing
will come up to you and say,
why don’t you just leave?
And you may not have the energy to disagree.
"What a waste of a face."
because of my waist.
My waist has been wasted
because of the space my waist
I am "a waste of space".
The beauty of my features penetrate
but the reality of my body disfigurates
what that man thought I should be.
I am not a waste.
I am not a waist.
I walk by this street everyday.
My heels click against the concrete.
The trees, blurry bushes in my peripherals.
The smell of swamp water that I can't seem
to go nose blind to.
I’m with you.
Your smile, a mile long across your face,
turned the leaves into spheres of fire.
When your thumb wiped a fallen
eyelash off my cheek
you transformed the streetlights
into floating lanterns.
The story you shared of your mother
teaching you to bake the perfect
apple pie before she passed away-
converted the sidewalk
into a solid rainbow
you borrowed from the heavens
just to glide across with me.
you made this street
my favorite street.