It’s tightening
Why do we say it’s our heart
That ****’s a lie
It’s the chest I know best
Idiocracy in my democracy
Because the demons get a vote
Why can’t an angels angels measure up to its halo
They simply say “no”
Pesos a day old
So they are worth zero
So he, the hero
That brings the dollar back
Stacks on stacks
Racks on racks on racks
But these are just facts
And still the heart hurts
Just ******* you
It’s a chest ache
As I write and you read
Heading my warning while
The stew is still stirring
I wait on the top of this hill
To see if “us” swallows the pill
It’s just **** or be killed
Chill

The darkness slithers along the inner surface of my veins
I can see it
Like a crackle of lightning from the heavens to the dirt below
It spreads
It treads
On the the fleshy road it goes
Soon this unwelcome essence
Will reach my unwanted home
And I
Will sit idly by
And witness

Sugar daddies? No.
I'll make my own **** sugar –
and plenty of it.

The wails ring out.
Heart wrenching vibrations infect
these foreign white walls.
From the bedroom down the hall,
the once distant cries crash in
to suddenly violate my calm.

Sticky hands struck
by the strap of absolute rule.
Each sharp crack of the leather
sends heat to suffocate my skin.
Each tear cried
I catch
in my feeble hand.

Delusions of valor
mist in my mind,
yearning to offer solace
for those troubled hands.

Hands that held mine on our morning route to school.
Hands that climbed beside mine to the tops of tall hills.
Hands that guided mine on backyard adventures in the bush.

Whop!

The whimpers deafen me
until they are the only sounds to be heard.
The poison of paralysis
then settles into my sternum.
I could do not a thing.
I could say not a word.

Her bruises swelled on my skin.
Her strained screams choked in my throat.
Her broken breaths lingered in my lungs
as her pain was mine.

I remember when we would practice penmanship
along a clean dotted line
I remember when we were absent minds
with focus fixed
Yes, Ma’am. No, Sir.
Climbing atop monkey bars,
we were crafty criminals never discouraged by law
We didn’t know what we were doing

I remember when I was crushing ******* him
and little love notes
Barbies aren’t cool anymore
NSYNC versus The Backstreet Boys
No, Sam is my boyfriend now
Gaucho pants and platform sandals
We didn’t know what we were doing

I remember when I couldn’t pearl papers,
tapped out after one rip,
and thought roaches only existed
in the cracks of crumbling city apartments
But I was still “cool”
and destined to be a rockstar
so, whatever...
I didn’t know what I was doing

Now,
I am a spinning dreidel despite the cataclysmic storm
I am the drizzle of syrup on a Sunday morning omelette
I am the cherry blossom tree that blooms in late spring
A settled and centered soul,
I am a pen on the brink of a classic
And I don’t know what I am doing

“Why?” is always what the doctors ask.
Why I sip time away while my life tick tocks by
Why I puff puff pass till the night fades to sunflowers,
Igniting blades of grass as low as I,
Running from my own mind for hours upon hours.

Blame the broken nature of my heart?
I’m advised to
stop lovin’ him, her, them.
When I’m pretty sure I never started.
‘Cause of an absentee father with an ******* twist.
Decides to leave, but couldn’t leave it be.
He had to call sometimes
and fly us down for Christmas and ****.

If you’re gonna disappear,
then you’d better leave.
Burn your fickle ties to all things ‘me’,
all things ‘we’,
and everything that will never come to pass:
The goodbye kiss as a yellow bus pulls in.
The footsteps counted as we sway to Smokey Robinson.
The paternalizing glare as he reaches for my hand.
The pair of footsteps beside a white laced train.

Stop confusing me.
Don’t be the reason for the bloodstains on my sleeve
Bleeding out any remnants of you and your scar
The recurring reminder that
I never learned what it was like to be
cared for correctly by a man.
See
I got so many ******* pillows in my bed at night
because I always wondered just what it might be like
to have a warm body next to me to hold.
But I flip that pillow over,
other side,
as always,
so undeniably cold.


But does the turbulence end?
Where does the line between disappointed and destroyed begin?
And the Reverend preaches.
But **** a sin.
This book of perfection will not
teach me about a life fully lived.

And we’re all living as children on the hot seat
while heaven’s questions are never answered.
The reasons
as fleeting and restless as a dancer.
Still, we are promised this cure
and force fed pieces of truth
as we’re expected to rest assured,
the trivial youth

And Father He preaches x,y,z
while 'x's mark the spot
where a why is never seen
until life’s eternal 'z’s
are resentfully
received.

Now look at what’s become of your kids.
I wonder if you will ever own up to what you did.

This tornado:
all you gave us to breathe
as you decided to
Quote, Unquote
Leave

From every docile rose petal
to the sturdy bark of the tree
From every rolling green meadow
to the wondrous and restless sea
I am the world
and the world is me

From every barren forest
to the city blanketed by smog
From every oil-tainted ocean
to every abandoned industrial cog
I am the earth
and the earth is me

From every blood stained uniform
to the bullet-ridden bookbag
From every obliterated home
to every desiccated flag
I am the world
and the world is me

From every line of B’reshit
to every Ramadan Feast
From the hymns in the West  
to mediation in the East  
I am the earth
and the earth is me

From every stolen breath
to every broken heart
From every sharp word spoken
to all of our falling apart
From the joyful triumph
To the shamming defeat
I am the earth
and the earth is We.