There’s a tongue in my blood
that don’t sit right in my mouth—
words I know in feeling
but not in sound.
My grandma prayed in it,
soft and low,
like a secret meant for someone
who I never meet.
She’d stir the beans slow,
hum songs I never learned,
and when I asked what they meant,
she’d just say,
child, some things ain’t meant to be told.
I carry stories in me
that I don’t have the voice for—
songs without melody,
homes without maps.
My hands know more than my mouth does,
my silence says more than my tongue.
Some days I ache in syllables
I ain’t never been taught.
I dream in colors
that don’t exist in this country.
I write poems
with ghosts in the grammar.
And when I try to speak it—
whatever it is—
the words feel like someone else’s teeth
in my mouth.
But still,
I keep trying.
To shape the hush into music.
To name the ache without breaking it.
To say I am here,
even if it sounds like
something I ain't sure how to mean.

I grew up with soldiers—
their boots a lullaby,
their grief stitched into uniforms
they never took off.

I learned how to die
a long time ago—
not in flesh,
but in forgetting how to be soft.

We played with shrapnel like toys,
measured time
by the distance between sirens.

And still—
I carry their silence
like a medal
no one pinned on me.

The angels come down to late,
their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes.
turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach
They came down from the sky, but you think they fell.
The smell of ozone lingers in their skin,
and Glory Glory Glory sounds like a punchline.
They promise altars and arks;
Their prayers sound like static, stitched together from dead languages.
They hum lullabies in reverse, backwards tongues behind broken smiles.
You ask what god they serve.
"Ours," they say, as if that should mean something
Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness.
The light around them peels paint from the walls.
They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight.
You are not surprised when their throats are torn open,
revealed to be hollow.

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

Why is it always about Jesus' Suffering and God's Sacrifice?
Where is Mary?
Where is the woman whose reward for goodness and virtue was to have her baby boy tortured and killed as a warning?
Do you think Mary the ******, Mary the Mother, Mary the human ever regretted being good enough to earn attention of her God?
Do you think she ever quietly, privately, resented her faith?
Cursed her fate to be raised on a pedestal, carved into history as beautiful, weeping, covered in gold, cradling the body of her child?
How would she feel today, to step into a church and see above the pulpit, larger than life, the glossy painted likeness of her boy, thin and bleeding, looking to the heavens to a Father who would not spare him?
Was it terrible for Mary? Did she hate her God, in the end? Or did she stand tall to the last breath, a reluctant but obedient witness, faithful despite everything?
Was as she ever torn between her faith and her heart? Her love and her fear? The choice between loss or betrayal?
It would be terrible if she was in torment, but would be terrible if she wasn't.

ghost
/gowst/

1.   The bleached whale teeth of your bones covered in layers of papery humanity, the blue of your Veins as they lie, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

2.   Static white and less, a phantom haunting your own skin. You were murdered, murdered, murdered by this coffin of a house.

3.   Dustless and fearfilled; can the dead die again?

Cancer took you like if had the right.
Like the world owed it something
More precious than it deserved.
( turned out that was you)

I hate it for what it did to you
For the way it stole your smile
And left nothing but silence behind
It made your body a battlefield
Then claimed victory like it had earned it.

I hate it for making you smaller
For the days it stole
The plans we made
That now feel like broken glass in my chest.

It didn't just take you
It left me here. Holding your name
Like a wound I can't stop bleeding from,
Hating somthing I can't even touch,
Wishing hate could ever be enough.