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, watching
her rebirth in fire, laid bare.

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

her talons look at us.
we look at fiery lips that lash and scorch her.
never more before his penetrating gaze,
as her wings form a 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

She is a goddess,

wearing a long train of boys --


like a Golden Goose.

I believe in her.
Not in supplication or prayer,
But because she cares
About every countless hair,
Every fallen sparrow
And unopened flower.
I believe
In her power,
Her daily miracles.
She cries wet tears,
Her heart beats blood,
Her hands open and close
Around **** or rose.
She's no ****** deity;
She's not ascended beyond reach.
Not an image of pity,
Craddling a bruised and ****** body
(Though she would).
She is flesh and thought.
I believe
Because she is.

I swear
next time a person  tells me ,
"oh she looks like a  little ****
OH SHE WAS
ASKIN FOR IT !
OH YOUR BODY
IS THE REASON
YOU WERE TOUCHED
oh she's slept with too many men ,
oh she's too much of an angry feminist."

I would love to ask them
well
WHYYYY
do you think she's such an
ANGRY FEMINIST
I know why I AM!!!!
;

BECAUSE when so many men &women
have ***** abused assaulted
hurt me with words
emotionally abused manipulated
gaslighted me
you feel poisoned by the men
who should've protected you
and when you feel that way by many women too
than where does that leave you ??
it leaves you hating most people
so stop tellin' us
TO STOP BEING
MAD
START
CHANGIN'
AND THEN
JUST SHUT
THE HELL
UP!!!

i make home of my mothers bloodied *****
there in which i sit in place of her heart
folded in upon oneself;
a shirt neatly placed within a drawer
careful hands awaken a fragile mind
cleft thoughts born from heavy tongues,
a mar amongst the brood.
draped over with shadow left by matron-age
heed the call of the other,
for naïveté will be one’s ruining
when those who give care
mislay their aptitude for it amongst the babe and wash.