why are you there
and not by my side
sharing my bed
slide inside
my head
and make yourself at home
pick me apart
dissect, and use my tendons
your marionette man

you were a rare specimen,

i wanted to catch you with my words,

paralyze you with my gaze,

dissect you with my tongue,

and stuff you with my love,

i wanted to keep you as a trophy,

but you were wild, and i was eccentric.

I come from a place of empathy
where perceptions
is a mix of colors
of hers, his and their
perspective.

I come from a place of empathy
where ears are made of patience,
drums sensitive to the change in wavelength,
de-weaving complexity
into simplicity.

I come from a place of empathy
where the emotions lacerating
hearts – sliced,
run parallel through me.

You lock into my embrace,
finding the comfort of compassion
amongst the rusty and scraping conditions.
  
When you project anger, fear, and angst
I start dissecting your past,
your rearing,
justifying and understanding
the origins of the
hand and experiences
that shaped you.

You render your mind open,
as I step in
walk among the stars, darkness
and the turbulent waves crashing within.

Your emotions tingle my skin,
and linger within me
as I understand wor(l)d apart,
developing cross-cultural understanding
and objectifying subjectivity.

Though I begin to understand
the origins, stem of your being,
swaying with your words
and hazing in the paradox of other’s being.
I choose to succumb to gravity,
and remain sturdy on certain beliefs.

I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.

Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.

But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.

My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.

There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.

As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.

The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.

The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
onto tissues.

I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.

I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.

My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.

The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.

Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.

I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.

I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.

I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.

I craft subconscious relief,
breathing memories
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.

I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.

I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.

Dissect me, tear me apart, take what you please and turn me to art. Poet, poet mind, poet soul. Write me like one of your poems old. My eyes green and my soul - a rainbow dull. Piece me together with words that flow. Break me apart to describe me as I grow. I want to see what others do. I want to read the thoughts of you. Poet, Dear Poet, write me please. What I ask is not a simple act; I know it won’t come with ease.

Sincerely,
Me