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Sometimes I lie
When people ask me those questions
Like “who inspires you the most”
Or “what is the most influential thing to have happened in your life”
Sometimes I talk about
Women in science
Or growing up adopted
Or being a struggling reader when I was in third grade
I never talk about my mom
I never talk about feeling like I had missing pieces
Not just in my heart but in my mind
Like someone pulled out the naughty things
The bad things
Leaving me with only leftovers.  
When people ask me for my best story
Sometimes I talk about how
I faked a peanut allergy
And how a boy stabbed me with an epipen when I ate a peanut butter malt in front of him
Thinking he was saving my life.
I usually avoid the part
About me wishing that those drugs were lethal
That an epipen could end it all.
I find small talk to be so hard
Because there aren’t enough good bits inside me
To make it through a conversation.
If you see me
Can you just do that thing
Where we make eye contact and nod slightly
Smiling sometimes and not stopping.
I don’t have anything
Truthful left to say.
Open to constructive criticism.
sky dining table.
much loaves of bread, butter heaps;
windswept leftover.
I knew it
When he first called
When he said my name
It tasted like honey-butter
Warming my soul
Never did I think
In my years of life
That I would fall for him
Crow 6d
always leave room for me
in the margarines of your life
Sorry if it seems a little pat
Alec Astaire Mar 24
Ready to explode
Wait a minute, don’t leave me
Things will get butter
Qweyku Mar 17
Sun Kisses
& melanin
a cocktail
made for

Radiant power
within brown skin

Witnessed by
heavens glory
white-lies & kin

Look yonder
troubled waters

...rays of hope
bask in futured
lumination of all
His Children

© Qwey.ku
Sun's Children
Helen Jan 8
monsters have shoved their claws into my ambitions
you have turned my body into butter
unsalted, not the good kind
my arm reminds me of a tree carved my young men,
hungry to be remembered and to leave an **** mark
dripping like sap

i feel like Jenny
“dear god, make me a bird, so i can fly far, far away from here”
because i am ******* sick and tired to being forced to look forward to telling my excruciating narrative,
like pulling my nails from my nail beds
and remember, it is my ******* story,
not yours,
it will never be yours

i am not your final girl
i am not even your girl
and i hate to break it to you,
but i never will be

i am the daughter of Khaleesi, and Aaliyah, and Beyoncé,
women who have walked through fire and have come out the other side, unscathed,
women who continue to take no **** form anybody

the world is a *****,
but over realized,
so am i,
yet more than anything,
i have been the cattiest ***** to myself for years ,
and i’ve finally decided,
i am ******* fed up with taking my own abuse
PJ Poesy Nov 2018
No butter, no cream, not even a can of evaporated milk
How to make Thanksgiving delicious?
Need it be?
a bounty
beauty abounds
eyes feasting on it
Horn of goat Amalthaea
pouring endless abundance
Of American pie
charmed decadence, never humble
Making it Great Again
for Black Friday comes
with all its leftovers
for some

Still, beauty to be found
by resources unbound
by what conventional terms deem buttery deliciousness
Eating humble pie this Thanksgiving.
marianne Nov 2018
the day before grief pulled up
with moving van and solemn promise
it was summer,
and i was wearing a cotton print dress,
yellow flowers and bare feet
or maybe it was my mother

that day, the day before
she was swirling slow motion
like in a movie, face to the sun flashing
through young leaves
making patterns,
arms wide

that day, the day before
i snuck a zwieback from the summer kitchen
and watched melting butter make
golden pools,
some dripped onto my dress
but i didn’t worry

that day, the day before the cold snap
wicked north wind,
the sun shone
and we were warm

butter still melts our hearts
Because we are made up of our ancestors. But can remake ourselves too.
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