Find poetry in the way
he bites his lips and breathes heavy,
which happens to be the same way she
hides behind her long fringe.

and also the way they both look at each other
speechless, breathless, empty.

Find poetry in the way
his mother shunned him once she was told,
or in the way his brother sneaks out in the middle of the night
to speak to his little brother,
and check up on how he has been doing without his mother's embrace.
Maybe you can find it in the way his sister cries to sleep at night,
whispering under her heavy breathing,

God, bring Mikey back home,
please tell mummy his heart aches too.
please tell mummy he just wants to be loved too.
please tell mummy his lover is just as human as i am.
tell mummy he makes Mikey smile, i haven't seen him smile since
Forever.

Perhaps your muse will be the way she paints,
with a burning passion.
Her mother is proud.
Her daughter is the best there is.
"Have you seen Jenna?" "Oh isn't she wonderful."
"Have you seen Jenna?" "Oh she's just busy today."

"When was the last time you saw your daughter, ma'am?"
"i never knew she.. i thought-
no, Jenna, you can't be dead"
Mum, i am drowning in my own blood.
but do not worry, i am **wonderful.

today i watched the clock tick in front of me
it was 1 am.
i watched a clock's hand run around in circles,
and funnily enough, it started running backwards.

time went swooshing by,
i exhaled before my inhales,
and i spoke after i thought.
i met you,
i missed you, even though i had never seen you.

time passed by,
but it was eerie.
i knew exactly how it was going to end,
it was deja vu.

it got better,
oh how awful it was in the beginning.

there were demons,
but not under my bed.
there were screams,
but they were in my head.
there were scratches,
but they weren't from the neighbour's cat.

then i was happy,
then i got small.
i did not know what was going on,
but it felt right.
i was content.
i let out one last scream,
then went up and left this world.

why is it that
we look at eyes,
but not lashes.
we look at legs,
but not bones.
we look at torsos,
but not backs.
why is it that the details
are left out when describing.
the details are what counts, honestly.
the little details make up our beauty.
why choose to not acknowledge them.

i am sorry that the way i stitch up my words
is not like yours.
i am sorry i leave out broken seams,
i am sorry i take breaths and my voice shakes.
i am sorry for the intricate ways i use to express myself,
like red strokes on this horrid skin,
or paper scars from ink pens.

i do understand how much
my Gender suffers
in this slum that we call
a world.
but please excuse my language
when I speak of the men,
You must have mistaken
for cattle.
Mummy don’t you say that he is the same as me?
Why do you treat him differently?
Why is he kicked around
for a mistake that another person
on another continent
did to another woman
that happened 56 years ago?
Why is he blamed
Why is he put down
for something that he has no control of.
Why is he pushed around
every time he wants to touch me.
maybe he does not want
to **** me, mummy.
Maybe he wants to caress me.
He is not a pig,
Mummy. Give him
a chance to do something
other than sit silently.
He is not a rag, mummy.

Don’t you preach about
Equality?
then why do you run off
bashing men
screaming
kicking
shutting off any male
that tries to settle
with me.

Don’t you say he is the same as me?
Why is He treated
as less
than Me?