I lost her..and her..and H.E.R.
I found myself swirled in a whirlpool of bad news  as  they consumed my light..
As they consumed my life
I resided to a some place between another's thighs,just to complement my highs and Damu shot eyes.
Rose like a flower on high tide,
I guess it was high time I realised the lies of reality.
The push and pulls of forbidden fantasies,
the sudden abortion of dreams when my heart was dropped to the ground and broke in slow motion,
the pieces of what she..she and S.H.E meant to me..until another comes and inglutinates those broken pieces.


The saviour who came and cast away my demons,
and she was not Jesus,
but his mother.

Yes,there's nothing I love more than turbulance.
The breath taking,
eye widening,
teeth clenching thrill of it all..
And what I love about it most is your face when your legs are spread far apart like newly weds after an ugly divorce,
nevermind the other passengers,
that fine attendant asked if she could join.
I'm known as a Pilot too,so lemme assure you of a safe arrival,
this flight could be waaay better than the peak of most highs,
and can never be spoilt..I never knew a cat that was ever this moist.
Or a fish that never needed water,but I don't eat mine raw,
unless the caviar looks right.

So lemme show you the skies,
soar all planes of ******* and ofcourse I'll open your mind.
You can keep your heart,
what's below your diaphragm is what I want,
only if the diaphragm's motion can be paused from below and above..

Welcome to the Mile High Club.

******* it.
I took you like an antidepressant.
And that wasn't fair,
And it didn't even work.
It wasn't good for anyone involved.
It's tricky trying to find the right balance.

I need to help myself,
And you'd be better off curing someone else.

I don't think I'll be filling my prescription this time.

My voice as sweet as honey,
My words dripping with venom.
I whisper words of comfort,
While my eyes say other.

I may look like a sheep,
But others know better.
Under these charming smiles,
A beast lays in slumber.

Revenge will be sweet-
With the taste of venom

The first time someone called me a poet
it was in the cramped back hallway of a party in early July
heat rising between our ****** spaces
sweat collecting at the base of my brow to keep anxiety at bay
I listen as someone who I could barely call an acquaintance describe me to a boy I just met:
“she is an amazing writer, trust me, she’s so cool”
As if me using metaphors for antidepressants
and words as bandages for wounds
was reason to make me worthy to get to know beyond my first name
to pin my feet onto a pedestal I didn’t ask to stand on to begin with
I press autopilot in my muscles,
mechanically flip my hair,
split my lips into a half-*** smile,
****** my hand,
and let my laugh ring with the music.
Little does everyone know I am the broken jukebox
with a disappearing voice.

I hide behind love and at 19, I wrote “What High School History Taught Me”
It was for you
you, the NYU junior with a mouth that clung onto vowels
and whose fingertips could read the braille embedded in my skin
You loved chasing storms,
I was almost named after a hurricane,
and this was how we were born after Hurricane Sandy-
it was never a question how we found comfort in destruction
But I still remember telling you
that I wanted to love you forever even if you didn’t stay to find out
And ever since I spit that
men come to me looking for their taste of mystery
for their chance to be immortalized
They don’t know I only speak in train station
and everybody is always a few minutes too late
No one has gotten the chance to get too close
because it’s never romantic to **** the girl who makes love to her own sadness every night

I’ve stopped seeing the fire in my poetry like most strangers do
because to them
my pain is pretty
my heartache is dressed in a bow so
they can all sleep better at night knowing
some 20 year old girl in California understands them
better than she understands herself.

I have been singing in a language I never fully understood
because I am the girl who attaches my reflection to a man
whose memory I still keep prisoner in my mind
and this is how I hide from myself
this is my disappearing act

This isn’t poetry anymore
and it hasn’t been for a long time
This is the sound of survival
This is my heart leaking gunpowder and discharging bullets
Right here
on this stage
is where I understand what it feels like to choke on the gas chamber of lost dreams
Right here
is a dusky New York City apartment
with a boy dressed in the mask of a man hunting me as prey
This stage is where I come home to after being at war with myself
This stage is my peace
my prayer for forgiveness once a week
Right here
is why friends from school don’t call me that much anymore
This stage
is why me and Joe broke up
This place
is why I don’t sit with my family at the dinner table no more
because why
Why share grace with those who can’t understand
how these lights I stand under make the full moon I need
to break my neck and howl at some nights

This is where I pluck the guitar strings of my throat to sing like a bluebird and slow dance with every ghost
This stage is the only place I can forklift
all the misunderstood out of my chest and force you to watch
and you
will still call it art
you
will still call it poetry

But this isn’t poetry anymore
it hasn’t been for a long time
This
is the sound of survival
This
is the sound of me using the inhale of night
just to make it to the exhale of morning.
Right here.
On this stage.
This
is where
and why
I
fight.