I wonder
What it is like
To be still.

It must be lovely
Not always shifting in your skin
And mind as well.

Is it even possible
To have that in this time?
Who can tell?

I don't know
But I hope one day
I will - you know, be still...

As I picked you up by the thorn, our love was bound for scarring. These ****** tattoo my skin, shades of black and grey--forever we are.

Melanin shields my body
From the harsh
Ever present sun above
And
Grants me assurance
Anytime i catch her rays
That cancer,
Shall
Not prevail over me.

My covering
Halts my youth
From crumbling,
Compelling all
To speculate my age.

Children of Europe!
Do not gaze at my blackness
With contempt,
Nor caste judgment on 
Me when a lover of trouble
With
My complexion goes forth
Stirring trouble.

For all ethnicities,
House impurities.

her eyes her eyes her eyes
are exquisitely annoying
what she would do to have that gone
and it is a rash and she is acting rashly
but she hates it and it keeps going on
her eyes her eyes her eyes

You're afraid of the fire
every time you see it
every time you put your hand out to the fire you pull it away
you pull your fridged hands back inside the handwoven pocket
are you afraid shes different?
why are you afraid of the fire?
why are you afraid of getting burned?
i put my hand gently in her hair
I kiss her soft lips
the fire.... the fire doesn't burn
it feels warm against my umber skin
I don't feel cold in the fire
why are you afraid of the fire?
the fire shares the same oak as us
I love the fire on my skin

her eyes are crochet pillows upon a peach couch
that is subsequently her face
red and puffy and not very comfortable

there are only two blues;
her irises
and the gloom that she feels every day

are you ok?
what happened?
people ask as they pass her on the street

nothing
she says
im allergic to something
she adds

what?
they ask

she do not know

though she has the inkling of an idea
that she is in fact
allergic to unwanted attention

sores and aches decorate her body like
christmas lights and tinsel and mistletoe

a red light on her shoulder
green lighting up her stomach
and rudolf has no red nose
but red eyes

and rudolf hates himself
a lot

she is rudolf
the red eyed
reindeer

she cries snowflakes
and blankets the land
with pillars of ice and snow
made of tears

merry christmas

A big house
is a lovely house,
a rich house,
a warm house.

A beautiful woman
is a cherished woman,
a clean woman,
a noble woman.

Both radiate:
her skin glows,
its columns shine
and the windows, oh so clean.

Try and look inside
you can't
              Can you?
take a peek.

As though its windows are clean
and her smile is inviting,
you can only gaze at the exterior
for when you get through the gate, the skin

The interior
is not
so
glamorous.