-  manipulating and twisting your tongue
spinning the head like a frisbee,  
from heavy big words  -  teeth are falling,
falling from the mouth on the asphalt,
-  the lips are cracking, and bleeding  -  burning like gasoline,
-  shrinking shrimps disgusted by the sophistication
of the simple words  acting big,  
-  eyes are popping out from the orbits,
leaving two question marks,  
-  ears  - oh - poor ears, falling down on the shoulders,
too many words to carry on,
-  the skin is not happy either -
squeezing the over expired botox, 

 -  too many words are in power,
hitting the brain, - hitting the brain.

When I was young I wanted to be older
Nowadays I wonder whether I should walk on my hands so that gravity can pull my skin in the opposite direction
Gravity can be so unkind, yet I guess it keeps me grounded
I see miserable people live long lives
And the good die young
Like and Love ... some still battle the difference
Many get what they want
But is it what they need
Or just a need for want ...

Flay me, shroud my body
in Saran wrap, for others to see
what you mean to me: a relief
map of live suffering,
writhing organs in a plastic bag,
a human soup to drag
behind you, sensitive to everything you do,
overflowing with formless worship,
pink, raw and dreaming
of a vicious kinship:
Open yourself and slip my parts in,
we can exist, two hideous beasts
within a single beautiful skin.

I am addicted to
rough *** and masochism.

I used to be addicted
to self-harm.

I learned to live without the feeling
of a blade against my skin,

but now I need the feeling
of warm hands against my skin
where my blade used to be.

I'm not recovering.
I'm still hurting myself.
all that changed is the weapon
that I choose to do it with.

From Spirit's plane to ER, I
Waited 4 hours post triage.
Watched a middle aged white lady wail herself to the front of the line for her pain was the only thing that mattered in a room of other equally ill patients.

My body shocked and perhaps still in the sky.
It was this moment that solidified that I had matured: grown to know long suffering love more that the other traits. Patience was as rooted as my African ancestry, my black race.

what feels good can’t hurt you
until it’s not good anymore.

reality doesn’t touch the bedroom
until someone opens the door.

you can grasp skin and
pull someone close,
but it doesn’t stop them
from leaving
once you let go.

my skin
has housed sunburns
and scraped kneecaps.
it has carried
hair and goosebumps
and so many freckles
that I could never count.

my skin
has endured bruises
and cigarette burns.
its suffering is
the aftermath of
abuse, impulsivity,
and my own self-hatred.

my skin
has braved hot weather
and icy water.
it has protected me
from prickly thorns,
from strong winds,
and from myself.

despite the cruelty
that I inflicted
onto it,
this skin
held me together
even when I
felt like I was
falling apart.

I am not afraid of
showing you my body.

I am afraid of
only showing you my body.

my mind is a mess.
a deep, beautiful,
complicated mess
of thoughts that twist
and turn and tangle.

I want you to be more interested
in prying open my mind
than prying open my legs.

I want you to be more interested
in me than my skin.

anyone can hear a heartbeat.
anyone can see a body
if it’s in front of them.

not everyone can hear thoughts.
not everyone can see love
if it’s in front of them.