My eyes close gently
Like butterflies finding peace.

My breathing is soft
Like the winds that move music.

On my back,
Covered with duvet,
I come alive.

Don’t you hear it?
The call to an ancient rhythm?

I start to dance.

My eyes clench shut
Like doors to an argument.

My breathing picks up pace
Like the smoke of heat in winter.

On my back,
Covered with sweat,
I come alive.

The dance begins:
It starts at my toes.

Clenching, curling,
Pirouette Princess.

Moves up my thighs,
Shaking, sliding,
Shimmy salsa.

My hands join in,
They create foreign mundras.

Massaging circles into soft flowers.
I’m blooming all over again.

The rhythm picks up pace,
The drum beats vibrations into my existence.

The process repeats,
Pirouette toes,
Salsa thighs,
And flowers blooming from fingertips.

Faster,
This time,
Faster.

My eyelids play movies I’ve never seen,
My breath hitches in my throat,
I’m coming alive.

Suddenly,
I feel everything all at once.

My head starts to spin,
The good kind of dizzy.

On my back,
Lifting up,
Soul leaving body in unspoken essence,
I’m coming undone.

In a estranged voice I’ve never known,
Your name leaves my parted lips.

The music stops,
The dance is complete,
And the petals wilt.

Fingertips sticky with nectar.
Or is it pollen?

Doesn’t matter—
It still tastes sweet.

Today I told you I loved you.
I tried to be cool with it
And ease it into the conversation.

But those three words stuck out like a sore thumb:
I love you.

I wish I could say it again,
But I don’t want to overwhelm you.
I love you.

I can only hear those three words on repeat:
I love you.
Over and over.

I don’t really know what it means to love you,
But I know this.

I know that I think about you with every passing second,
I know that I always feel complete with you,
And I know that my day is never enough without you.

I love you.

I love you,
Every single piece,
I love you.

I love all your flaws,
In my eyes they create perfection.

I love your smile,
In my eyes they put heaven to shame.

I love your voice,
In my eyes symphonies could never compare.

I love you,
Every single part of you.

Can’t you see?
I care about you deeply,
I love you inevitably,
Is that wrong?

I confess that I love you,
And I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

The reason I called at 12:14 am
Was not for casual small talk,
Or chit chat about the day,
Or even because I missed you.
It’s because I’m trying to fill my empty satisfactions.

The reason I text you back at any time in the day
Is not to check up on you,
Or to be with you,
Or even because I care about you.
It’s because I’m trying to fill my time.

I’m using you,
Sick, right?

The reason I reach out to you
Is not because “I still love you”,
Or to have and to hold you,
Or even because I, dare I say, miss you.
It’s because you’re so convenient.

Wanna know something even sicker than the latter?
I know that I’m using you,
I know that I’m some sadistic girl,
I know that I’m some kind of a messed up human.

The reason I lead you on
Is not because “I want you so bad”,
Or that I can only contract at the thought of you,
Or even because I desire only you.
It’s because you’re so easy.

The thing is:
I love it.

I love using you.
Frankly, It would be quite rude not to.

You’re just temporary,
Every breath you take is because I gave it to you,
Every step you take is because I showed it to you,
I created you.

I am your Goddess.
(When you think you’re a God.)
Silly me, silly you,
To think you would own me.

Silly us,
To think we’re in love.

But we know better than that.
We know that you’re just a temporary fix to a bigger appetite.
Let’s not think about that.

Let’s be silly,
Let’s be stupid,
Let’s be ignorant kids trying to love.

It’s 3 am and I’m writing poetry.
Not my usual go to love poem though.
(I promised multiple people I wouldn’t write anymore about that one person)
(You know that one guy.)
I’m writing poetry at 3 am.
(Not love poetry,)
Just poetry poetry.

I can’t write anymore poems about (missing) you,
(Wanting you,)( or even still loving you.)
(Yes, I remember my promise.)

So, I’ll write this—
My 3 am poem.

My poetry comes alive in the nighttime.
(Or should I say unreasonable hours of the day when I really should be asleep, but I think I might have borderline insomnia.)

My mind runs at a million miles per hour,
I think of everything at once.
Metaphors, onomatopoeia, and allusions.
And you know me,
I just can’t resist the perfect stanza.

I become fixated on it.
I tell myself no,
No, no, no,
You need to sleep.

But here I am,
Writing, writing, writing.

And guess what?
I even write in my sleep.
My dreams create prose better than I ever could.

It’s a tragedy that I’m sure even Shakespeare was a victim of.

Writers don’t sleep,
Poets don’t sleep,
No one does.

Or else everything falls apart.

You forget how commas work,
You forget how to spell the word ‘Apricot’,
And you forget the meaning of it all.

You forget the reason for writing,
You forget the passion of spoken word.

The only sleep that a poet will ever receive is when they are truly immortalized in their work.

And as you can see,
That is not happening anytime soon for me.

So, I’ll stay up every night.
Trying to remember the meaning of oxymoron,
With the word eulogy on the tip of my tongue.

You’ll never understand me,
And that’s alright.

Other poets will never understand me,
And that’s just fine.

All we’ll ever understand about each other is that words don’t sleep,
And it seems that neither will we.

(-The Poetic Insomniacs, 3:12 am)

Let me tell y’all something:
The white man don’t care about our suffering.
The privilege is too bright to see us.

The white man don’t care about us.
The white man wants to see us get shot,
The white man wants to see us wither and perish.

But who built America on their backs,
Bare handed, and
Whipped into submission?

We did.

We will take back America.
We will take back our streets,
Paved with the blood and tears of our people.
This is our America.

Not whitewashed and stained red with racism.

This is your America.
Where when we say, “Stop! Don’t shoot!”
You shoot anyways.

This is your America.
Where when we say, “I can’t breathe.“
You continue to suffocate us.

This is your America.
Where when we say, “Help.”
You continue to let us suffer.

This is your America.
Where the president calls us thugs,
And threatens to shoot us and our freedom.

This is not my America.

This is your America.
Where you shoot us for having cell phones.
Where you terrorize our sons and daughters.
Where you **** us for being black.

Who gonna protect us?
Not cops drunk on their own power and superiority.
Not the president blinded by racism.
Not our white “allies” who stand by and watch us burn.

But if we burn,
You burn with us.

If you **** us,
You die with us.

We tried peace,
We tried awareness,
But we always end up with violence.

We’re scared,
But who can blame us?

You’re killing us with your American Dream,
You’re murdering us with your American Dream,
You’re suffocating us with your American Dream.

This is your America—
Not mine.

We will take back America.
We will take back our freedom
Or we will die trying.
And that is the American Dream.

perfection is a myth that we try to overcome
anytime, we can do our thing without pressure
certainty might not always be on our side, and
it may take time to gain strength, will, and courage
nevertheless, let perfectionism victim none of us; let us
grow and succeed within our own ways and time.

In the last pandemic,
I fell in love with a sick person.
We didn’t stay 6 feet apart.
I pressed my head on his chest
and listened to his beating heart.
We shared our limbs and our breath,
and there was only one part
of him that threatened me with death.
I miss the days when we knew
what risks we were taking.
But we still  measure love that’s true
by what we are willing
to do and to not do.