Beauty is a fallacy.
It makes sense to us,
but who has the right to
determine it?

The majority of the
Population perceives that
they are given that right,
for beauty has been twisted,
manipulated and barbed into
a wire that is toxic and
vehemently grotesque.

Beauty is subjective,
Its core isn’t objective.
We like to think it is,
but in reality, in notions,
in principles, and in practices
it is not

For beauty is determined by grace,
by elegance, and most importantly looks.

Beauty of thought and process
is highly disregarded.
It has become but a mere
illusion, barren in both
the intricacy of reality and truth.

Beauty is subjective, yet
it is determined by predispositions
and implicit standards that
originated many years ago,
yet these originated ideals
still reign supreme today.

Beauty is far more than
an outward façade,
For beauty is truth,
beauty is compassion,
beauty is knowledge
beauty is humility.

their love isn't their own
it isn't a shared moment
like the rest who follow the
straight narrative.

they steal their kisses behind
doors, buildings, alleys,
places people wouldn't pay them any mind.
they flinch in fear.
Afraid to be seen, afraid to show
who they love.

their love is already decided.
They're birthed to follow
the straight narrative.
Having to be with someone,
their heart doesn't desire.
To be what others want.
To be safe.

Their love is too ethereal
for the people who hate them
to ever understand.

Their love is too different
for others to synthesize.
Their love is pure, wild, and spirited.
For they don't follow the bounds
or the narratives
Society has implemented.

As wild and pure and spirited as
their love is. They still
have to hide.
Afraid of isolation
and persecution.
Afraid of loving who
their heart aches for.

Foot tap,
              tap,
                  tapping;
pencil chewed down to the core.
Focus, it will come.

Her own love isn't enough
it never is
not when she can't be what her mother wants.
tears of desperation fall and
linger below her eyelashes
and dry on her cheekbones

those cheekbones her mother gave her
those cheekbones her mother birthed to her
Yet,
she wasn't enough
not when her other children
are there.

One more time,
she tells herself
thoughts of hope and accomplishment
give her pride, give her validation,
yet not enough validation
to be cared for like the other children
not enough to be heard.

her mother's words caress her
endearing her that she's good enough.
But the truth that she feels is
so powerful and vivud,
she knows that she possibly
couldn't be good enough.
No matter how many
things her mother tells her,
she knows the truth,
even if her mother can't see the truth.

It's not enough.
Not when she can't be the daughter
her sister is; she
could never be for her mother.

His hands were calloused,
they were home and a
remedy for the mixture of
my sickness that I never
could pinpoint.

Hands, such a feature
that could be the instrument
of a subordinate
and domineering teacher.

They are looked upon,
not given thought nor inquisition,
but that wasn't the case for me.

Those hands were
where I found my
reprieve, an unhealthy
and vindictive reprieve.

Those hands were
a paradox of all
things combined.
Those hands were a
paradox for the cruelties
and involuntary injustices
in the world; A world
that was filled with grizzly
reprimands and slurs for
those who spoke up.

Indeed, a paradox those
controlling and
manipulative hands were.
They were cruel.
They were kind.
They were abusive.
They were reassuring.
They were foreign.
They were home.
They were the origin
for my shred of sanity.
They were the origin
for my absurdity.

Oddly enough,
they were home.

A cruel world seals
its fate and its pearls.
It leaves the rarity of
oddities abandoned among
the normalities of abuse.

Among those normalities
and oddities were those
hands.

I don’t know why I keep coming down here
Into the dark abyss of these tunnels.
It’s like something’s calling out to me
Guiding my feet without my permission
Like I’m just along for the ride.

Water drips down from the lower level of the 82nd street station—
Downtown B and C train.
I’m in a cave with dripping stalactites
But instead of awe and wonder
All I’m bracing myself for
Is absolute collapse.

The train roars in
Ba Dum Ba Dum Ba Dum
Slowly making its way to a stop
With a whine of its wheels locking into place
And a screech of the doors opening, protesting all the way.

I know I shouldn’t get inside
Should walk the twenty blocks
In sub-zero temperatures
Where at least the light will shine—
But something beckons me from the darkness.

As the train slowly begins to move
I see the red and blue lights waiting, watching, outside the window
The apparent heterochromia of the monster that lives and breathes and is these tunnels.

I’m suddenly sure that I’ll never return.

I went there without you.
She first spoke to me in the Tower
after poetry and drink.
We discussed broken hearts
and unlovable souls
and how waiting can destroy
even the deepest of loves.

She said I was the lark, ascending
(but the ground pulled at my feet).

She was beckoned toward
a city halfway around the world,
where the markets are always open
and the oceans are always warm.

We still rise to the same sun,

I told her through a screen
as she traveled through
narrow streets on a city bus.

We still fall to the same moon,

she said back, shrouded
in the morning mist.