So weirdly unknown to me
how my soul  becomes the strongest
part of me
while my heart grew the weakest of all
I asks why to myself billions of time
who's responsible when the heart and soul
are untouched, unrevealed

There was something
strange about your
demeanor
like you were
trying to place me
but couldn't quite
figure out where...

Listen.

I'm not easily
placed.
I can't be easily
figured out.
My ******
expressions
and body language
are incongruous
nonsense.
My body itself
is a polygon
with undefined
sides and length.
You'll never calculate.
You'll think you have the
answer a dozen times
before you do, and
then you still won't.
We all know you're
predictable as ****, but
I'm not.
I don't compute.
I am not a number.
I am more like a force.
A deep feeling in
your gut you ignore.
That you follow and then question.
The purpose of a pilgrimage
that started with someone different.
Just go with it.

I am good at ******* yes.
Once you've kissed my holy *******
there is nothing more to discover.
You'll know me inside and out.
Touched me in a way no one else has...laughs
Let's just go with that.

The pieces of me that love you entirely
are wholesome and wretched.
But you will never see them.
I am just around.

who the **** am I?
what the **** do I look like?
where the **** do I fit in?
I say as I'm mindlessly brushing my teeth.  I look at the image in the mirror and ask them, "where did you even come from?"
There is no reply, only an echo of what I think my face is.

where the **** am I going?
how the **** am I going to get there?
what the **** do I even want?
I ask the image. There is no reply, only desperation in its eyes. "Do you even want to be here right now?" I ask the imagine. No answer. But I think yes. I think the image wants to be more than that. I think it wants to be. Simply, be.

I walk back to the mirror. Exist, I tell the reflection. Just exist, I tell myself

Golden ringlets upon your tiny head.
The first thing I saw through weary eyes and a heart so full.
Like swirling sunsets against the deep blue sea of your eyes.
Beyond the exhaustion and pain and tears was a greater love and joy and fear and wonder.
Soft cries over laughter and hospital noises.
Like a graceful song  unknown to my ears, but carrying a tune of familiarity.
Curves around your nose and cheeks setting above rosebud lips.
Tiny pink hands with their warm curling gentle grip hugging my forefinger.
After nine months of loving you without a name,
Feeling your movements as you grow. Planning and daydreaming and questioning everything.
Excited, terrified, mystified.
Finally, my sweet girl.

30 Cycle
“roses are red...”
just like how we bleed
we’re stuck in this cycle
trying to recycle
to reuse the same lines
for every the same lies
the aftermath is in our poetry
twisting our very own story
and now we’re both left
trying to figure out
each and every petal
on “what ifs” we settle
i’m tired, i’m tired
of reading between the lines
guessing which are lies
words remained unspoken
leaving us more than broken

silently.
they fall.
without consent.
they fall.
showing,
weakness.
they fall.