Dec 2019
I used to have plenty wishes.
Tirelessly praying day and night, remembering a time when I was five, knelt down infront of a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for a miracle.
Unbeknownst to the fact that I am the only one listening, and even I find my words inaudible. Flooding my mouth with tears, catapulting down tired ducts, circumventing those delinquent eyes that have seen enough.
I now lay in a bed of flowers, they have found a home in my skin, roots sprouting, making ground, making love to the sound.
Gardening my soul with delectable cries only I could hear, but this time my words are unforgivingly clear.
Flames arousing, fire stirring in my *****, the pleasure of sculpting my own home, a concrete built on fantasy, a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for an escape.
That child remembers.
I carry that day’s scent on my fingers.
Spewing pangs of pain and joy with every recall. I remember relief.
Relief that finally, I am not the only one burning, ashes zigzag their way to the earth, spectators mildly immersed.
I no longer need to pretend that I am blind just to allow myself to see.
A star witness to my own memory.
God help a family on fire.
My father has burned our home way before mama did. A reflection, a projection of truth has ferociously emerged into a play for our very own eyes to feast- we would have never survived our own characters.
Now, I often find myself oddly silent, ransacking my cerebellum, almost an assault to this new found pendulum, prosecuting myself for not wanting more-
for I no longer fear.
That child remember’s it clear.
And for the first time in my life, in numerous occasions, I am no longer afraid to face my reflection, and the very thought that I am a nobody is monstrously enough in a world where everybody is religiously pleading to be handcuffed.
I spread my legs wide like a canvass, waiting for someone to play with, I am still a child whose hands need blessing.
This flower is finally blossoming, delineating pain and joy, emanating an unfamiliar yet familiar fragrance. It’s no longer a reflection nor a projection of mom’s addiction-
I now pray in providence,
making love out in the open.
Sealing all the vocabularies of life, the decibel of truth has finally found its tune in my very own coming.
I have enough.
God help a woman in love,
God help a woman brave enough to touch herself.
Tirelessly praying day and night, remembering a time when I was five, knelt down infront of a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for a miracle.
Unbeknownst to the fact that I am the only one listening, and even I find my words inaudible. Flooding my mouth with tears, catapulting down tired ducts, circumventing those delinquent eyes that have seen enough.
I now lay in a bed of flowers, they have found a home in my skin, roots sprouting, making ground, making love to the sound.
Gardening my soul with delectable cries only I could hear, but this time my words are unforgivingly clear.
Flames arousing, fire stirring in my *****, the pleasure of sculpting my own home, a concrete built on fantasy, a reflection, a projection of my mom’s addiction, mercilessly wishing for an escape.
That child remembers.
I carry that day’s scent on my fingers.
Spewing pangs of pain and joy with every recall. I remember relief.
Relief that finally, I am not the only one burning, ashes zigzag their way to the earth, spectators mildly immersed.
I no longer need to pretend that I am blind just to allow myself to see.
A star witness to my own memory.
God help a family on fire.
My father has burned our home way before mama did. A reflection, a projection of truth has ferociously emerged into a play for our very own eyes to feast- we would have never survived our own characters.
Now, I often find myself oddly silent, ransacking my cerebellum, almost an assault to this new found pendulum, prosecuting myself for not wanting more-
for I no longer fear.
That child remember’s it clear.
And for the first time in my life, in numerous occasions, I am no longer afraid to face my reflection, and the very thought that I am a nobody is monstrously enough in a world where everybody is religiously pleading to be handcuffed.
I spread my legs wide like a canvass, waiting for someone to play with, I am still a child whose hands need blessing.
This flower is finally blossoming, delineating pain and joy, emanating an unfamiliar yet familiar fragrance. It’s no longer a reflection nor a projection of mom’s addiction-
I now pray in providence,
making love out in the open.
Sealing all the vocabularies of life, the decibel of truth has finally found its tune in my very own coming.
I have enough.
God help a woman in love,
God help a woman brave enough to touch herself.
