I've been told you have a sweet tooth for revenge.
I have always admired the strength in your fight.
Unlike you, I grew tired of feeling the heat of your blood.
You refuse to be wrong and when the stone finally sails, you walk around with the smell of spite.
You finally won.
I am no longer yours.
That's enough vengeance to last you a lifetime.
In the womb he was connected
With a thousand years of family
Cursing through the tether
Of an unfortunate mother.
Then culled from the herd
In a distant cow town
For permanent loan.
With the pretext, the equivocation:
He'll have a better life.
When someone other deems to tell him,
He'll cry, he'll hide,
It's his need for human affection.
He can't forget what didn't happen,
A past that wasn't shared;
Of stories reaching back through years.
The anecdotes on celebrations,
The exaltations, deprivations,
Tales shared like bread
By lost generations.
All his life he's felt the itch
To scratch his DNA.
One day, the knock is heard,
Bells may ring,
There, standing straight on the stoop,
A refracted image of oneself,
Trans-parent cord through missing years.
Aye, there will be tears.
(You'll explain your teenage fears,
Your family's lack of understanding;
The time when wanton women
Had babies out of wedlock)
He listens to the reasons,
Stirred in the heaping crock.
He learned of love,
Was schooled with affection,
He knows he wasn't known to you,
That he was left
For personal sake.
He crosses fingers,
Like plated scissors,
To snip the cord he's hung on;
To sever the love,
You never delivered,
To a son
You never knew.
Today, I write for you.
I poured myself as an ink
and used it to put my feelings
into words I wish you’d read.
Last night I waited until twelve
counting down for the moment
we were supposed to celebrate
together. But as I lay wide awake
at two in the morning
on my sea of sheets,
I felt the chills
of a desolate January night
which was made lonelier
because you’ve put out the light.
So today, I write for you
even though I am so scared.
Because each time I transform
my emotions into words,
the memories come
like crashing waves.
Still, I gave in and
let myself write for you
although it is a very painful thing to do.
I took out the notebook
with dedications you’ve never knew
and made love with words
because I couldn’t do it with you.
Darling, you are
my bittersweet muse
and I let it take over
even just for today.
I let the poetry
drift through my veins
and created poems
in a melancholic, agonizing haze.
I wrote you
a long love letter
and talked about our memories
my enduring love
and unyielding hope
and fiery passions.
Honey, I tried to write them all;
but words are not enough
for the magnitude of my devotion.
Today as I write for you,
I let myself take
a glimpse at your photos.
And as always, I felt
a painful pang in my heart
When I see you hold her hand.
So tonight, my love,
let me write for you
these words I’m not even sure
if you will ever read.
But dearest, I’d cut my skin
and open my veins for ink
to write you
as I cry myself to sleep.
your return was my forgetting.
your arrival was liquid amnesia spilling into the cracks of my open wounds. your scent was the rays of forgetfulness that slowly consumed the lazy nerves in my body until i could no longer remember why i hated you so dearly in the first place.
you had the audacity to twist your hands, touch this intoxicated heart, and kiss these battle scars with sober lips. you turned my war into broken reputation and i know you thought i was gonna say peace, but peace isn't the opposite of war.
we fought these drowning temptations.
and we will keep fighting until our last breath lets go of its hold on the wind.
we are the key to continuation.
It's been a while since I last was
At the train station.
I miss the icy wind
And the stench of piss.
I recall two trains on both sides
Of this train station.
The red one will lead you west,
The green will take him east.
So you stand by the empty tracks
And watch his shillouette disappear
In the swarming mob of passengers.
You can't see him anymore,
But his fingers still linger around your back.
And you don't know this,
But he can't forget the smell of your hair.
The green train loudly scurries away
And the sound breaks your heart.
I feel sorry for you.
I feel sorry for the station
And the red train that you hate so much.
One day I'll return,
Barefood on the railroad,
With his name trapped in my palm.
Just as you promised.
Crawl on your belly into the garden,
Slip between the ferns
Swallow fallen fruit you found on the earth,
Fatten your girth with what you didn’t earn.
Crawl into his marriage bed,
Break into his children’s home;
Rearrange the furniture,
But it doesn’t make it your own.
You are not his wife.
You are not his lover.
You are the profane, no-name, acquisitive whore.
Crawl on your belly into his bed,
Sink your long teeth into his cowardly throat-
Rearrange the furniture,
But it doesn't make it your home.