chin lifts and neck cranes,
eyes close to relish pain and
pleasure, measure me
in hand cups,
a little mouth opens up
revealing wet teeth, a
high gasp escapes, a rasp,
roughly shove me
down, a frown upon
your lips but eyes glimmer
with delight as my resistance
grows dimmer, the lights
go down along with you
and I scream, steam
could blow out my ears
but it's tears on my face
that you replace with
droplets of yourself,
top shelf slap marks
join my decorated skin,
only to glow red
before we fall into the bed,
ready to begin again.

Listen to them sing,
the braver few
who aren't denied
their voices by fear
but push past, rasp
as they may, or
belt, felt by the
whole room or
maybe just me,
doomed to notice
the part of me
stifled by stupid
nonsense when
I could spew
it from the rooftops,
anew in my loud
voice of violence
and idiocy
and elegancy.

I'm reading novels into
your cool expressions that
I know, somewhere,
only say syllables but
I so badly want
the attention of
your words,

unheard

but understood,
sentences that say
in so many ways,      I
see you,       I love you,
         I see you again.

"she's crying". "she's
crying, she's crying",
"she's" --yes, I KNOW
babies cry. Did you
think I switched
off my biology
for a moment?
that every sob doesn't
stab me, every wail
wailing on my heart,
her bleats for
me beat me raw
but she needs
a ******* NAP
and sometimes
adults cry, too.
and when that happens
where are you?

I watch them perform
their perfect storm of words
heard by the snappiest
of listeners, greeting
this odd cadence with reverence
there is a right way to do this
and in spite of my knowing that
I choose rhyme, sowing my
failure into each line, fine
with the results because
I'm not sure I love
what I'm hearing but
searing in my mind is
not the need for spiting
this form, but a seed of
love for what I'm writing.

A slap across the face,
my thoughts' palm imprinted
all over my battered body,
beating me with every
judgement, steamrolling past
any rational compassion,
lashing out at any
dangling fruit, mangling
my esteem on a minute level.
Disheveled, I can see
I'm a mess from my latest
abuse, and I gently put
bandaids on bruises,
take rest, attempting to
set broken bones with time,
unwilling to perform
the work that would truly heal
instead of a quick feel of relief,
because until this belief is gone,
that I'm worth less than
any and everyone else, come
forth all imaginable injury,
all infection and poison,
rejection of self-love,
in favor of sickness and
pain, please someone explain:
is happiness even real?

Joy has become a fairy tale
to me, and as a child I'm
starting to realize the stories
aren't true, they don't
apply to you, this
contentment remains a
concept, illusory, not adept
to application in my
reality, and I'm just
here waiting and reading
the tales of peace
while my mind beats
and breaks, pinches
and punches, brings me to
my knees with a gun
to my heart, always
cocked, safety off,
and at this point
I'm screaming to just
pull the trigger, I
figure being over is
more tolerable, after all,
I can't disappoint
if I'm not here, don't need
to fear falling short,
appalling the masses near
and far, if i've traveled
where I don't feel or know,
If I've gone where
my thoughts can't go.