my lover is the pinnacle of my pride
my lover hails the oceans and
directs the breeze
my lover does not hesitate to conjure seasons
one after the other
my lover does not discourage my uncontrollable awe
instead, my lover rips open my carefully contained cages
and sets free my inner workings
my lover makes the sun blush a bright rufescent hue
every morning
and the moon glow with joy
at the sight of my lover's resting eyes
my lover tips my earth over on each side
my lover makes my world turn so much so that i make sure everyone else can feel it too

platonic years insurrected by civil wars (again)

one girl hit by lightning (again)

x-rays of her broken limbs painted from memory

caught between flintlock and fossil

with a just-sleepy-enough, narcotic feeling

his ghost in the sock drawer

his odd fingerprints on her luggage

the wilt of flowered books

full of wide-eyed selfies

and running scared old love letters
(or were they death threats?)

all roadblocks to her star-shaped chemical world

until her coup d'état falls helplessly into the sea (again)

We are wo
morpheme for
man.

But I see your pain, sisters.

I acknowledge it.

I validate it;

I gift us the vowel
e

w o e

for we will not stay broken
while men claim the throne to

whole

It hurts,
it stings,
it makes me cry,
it makes me laugh,
it feels like my heart will explode...
why do people want this?

days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.

mumbles, jumbles, into the night
my baby phoenix stumbles into its plight
a better life was merely imagined
but my dove, my dear, bitterly determined

huddled witnesses
there! in the square
a drove of fireflies,
her rebirth in fire, laid bare.

one talon atop the southwest corner --
soon no more the object of the poet's pen,
is she reborn her own poetess.

her tuckered tail, dead-centered --
shaking off crimson pearls of lunar lunacy,
henceforth, bleeding on her own time, her own tenancy.

another talon into the southeast corner,
(we see that fiery lips lash and scorch her) --
never more at his penetrating gaze,
as her wings envelop the column of blaze.

she soars, she screams:
but to nothing but scorn --
the square-goers think she is just forlorn.  

my dove, my dear, for your ****** death --
I pray it greets not a dragon's breath.

Love is a thousand women who fail to amount to one,
Peasant seductress with bared shoulders of red dun-colored roads and candle smoke,
Who pours down her wet, ungoverned hair, like a fast-fading storm to dry over Aurelian walls,
In that dark sneer of sultriness over the sentry-like stillness of ramparts and stone,
A wasp in water whose sibilance comes from what the sting makes,
Like the upgathered phalanx of spears in the sand,
Or the sisters of fate who have coiled their hair as sunset snakes,
Her fingertips ***** into me like much-traveled and ancient rain.

and there she is,
known as cruel wicked for speaking.

her hair was tied,
her neck was strangled,
her eyes were poked,
her lips were stapled,
her arms were rotated,
her feet were collected,
and she were dressed into something new.

but she did not like it all,
and broke the strings above her.
they called her a demon,
setted her into fire,
darted her heart with spears,
dragger her into venous snakes,
tangled her with ruling hurricane,
just to let her meet their god, lucifer.

yet she is still there standing,
hoping until her last breath—
after all, she is the woman of god
who died from people she devoted for.

"war may be over— but inhumanity remains" ; @wordsbyhami