I want you to make me feel naked everywhere
saying things that make necks hot, face hot
don't have to be so sexual, don't have to touch
Want to? Do so, though, don't be so mechanical
swim on, flow on, spill on, no pushing
the things said should tear open, pop seams
wonder what's inside, beating
running, ebbing, draining, no inspecting, no prodding
a thorough investigation with eyes, words
make the most difference, words dig the farthest
fill the fastest, reach to ends that previously had
Words swathe me in calm,
Sentences, paragraphs that soothe.
Viridian verbs burst through the grey,
Taunting me into action-
Seducing me into a delicious dance-
Gypsy girl, swing your sentences my way!
Turquoise adjectives wrap around my wounds,
Embracing my flaws and perfections.
Rough olive skin; somber caesious eyes-
Gypsy girl, with amaranthine scars.
I drape myself over sienna nouns,
Steadfast, supporting me proper, improper, always.
Paper, songs, tree, sky, love, Jami Lee-
Gypsy girl, use your words correctly!
Each turn of a page lures me deeper-
Each spoken rhyme embraces me close-
Jami Lee, sweet little girl, get your head out of the clouds,
And your nose out of a book!
She is the vindictive snow
Beautiful, cold causing her chilling touch to leave me numb
She creates an overload of dopamine for me
But like I said she left me numb
She compressed limerence upon me
The concentric feelings I have for her linger
This contours her opaque heart
Leaving her pliable words lay rendering in my mind
She applies this solvent to it leaving me broken
Forlorn she left me
Yet, the tactile, numbing sensation keeps me going
For she is the one I love
Causing our hearts to be diptych artwork off our hinges.
across a vast
horizon of sea foam
blues - no body
can exist within
Copulation of the minds...
as word play
leads innuendos to fornicate
upon the poets tongue...
his fingers give voice to wanton
laying the reader bare
helplessly beneath his hands
with ink stained kisses
words into their mouths
a breathless sigh
resonating his ache to be heard
as he stands naked before them
to their voyeuristic gaze
before taking them upon the sheets
in punctuated passionate
leading them toward the climax
cried out for...
Jesus I'm Good.
I say hello
My nametag dangles from my lanyard
"Hello, my name is Liz
Pronouns are kye/kyr"
They see the lanyard
and they laugh.
"Those aren't pronouns!"
"She is messed up."
A 300lb woman
looks into the mirror
remembering her peers' words
"You should lose weight."
"You're very overweight."
"Your obeseity is your fault."
A 75lb woman
looks into the mirror
Her anorexia laughs
remembering the 300lb woman she used to be
her peers then tell her
"You need to gain weight."
Shut up. Shut up.
The boy hides his face
Not giving the teacher eye contact
The teacher calls his name
His stomach flips upside-down
She called on him on purpose
he just knows it
In front of the class
expectant, judgemental eyes glaring
Instinct tells him to run
He looks at his notecards
All he sees is chickenscratch
The teacher hangs her head in disappointment
"Just sit down if you have nothing to say."
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
A girl drags hersef through the day
Everything is black and white
Coming home to wild parents
Who hit her constanty
and then claim
"I love you."
For every welt, mark and bruise
But when she gets one on her face-
She had given one, too.
In fact, she had given many
How generous she was!
The police came and arrest the girl.
All she heard was
"Her mother is dead."
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
Take a breath
the girl tells herself
She goes to her parents
They stare, wide-eyed
at her dress, eyeliner and nails
they just stare.
She tells them
her new identity
They tell her
"Chris. You aren't a girl.
You're a boy."
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
You read a poem
titled "Shut Up"
About the hardships
The unfair, the despair
of living life.
Opinions don't matter
If you are happy,
who cares what they think?
If they criticize you
She once told me
she was terribly afraid of
the 889 blades of grass
in the park down her street,
of the 889 worn books
in her local library
of the 889 gum-covered steps
to her bus stops
of the 889 looks
she must make over her shoulder
of the 1 778 pairs of greedy eyes
stealing looks away from me.
I missed her when she sent me pictures
because I couldn't bear to look
at empty frames of empty eyes
(red dows no match red
unless it is the scarlet of blood on broken glass
after a year and two months of tranparency)
and also because the things that slipped into my phone
could only remind me of moments that could never be
that would never come true.
I don't know what to say to her
without breaking her
(like the broken glass)
(the image still hasn't left my head)
but she inspires me toward metaphors
and the adromeda galaxy
isn't so far away anymore.
How can I stay by her side
when she triggers me to want to fall
but how can I ignore her call
when she is the only person I feel safe with
I am afraid to tell her
how I feel
because in a cliche
I don't know how I feel myeslf
but dear, together, we are formidable
and apart --
I don't know about you,
but I catch myself on the dry spells --
we are fort minable
this song has been stuck in my hear
since it reminded me of you
and this could be another metaphor for something heartfelt
and not altogether original
But I want us to be
the figures in the painting
you said you saw us in
I want to be
that feminist duet
(even if I can't sing and you voice is that of the devil's)
I want to be
the cats in the picture
with the intertwined tails
or the flowers tangled up
on a vine
(I was going to send you that on
but I thought against it
because you were too beautiful to be compared
to a simple petrichor-scented bougainvillea)
So I will be
the 889 poetry books
you dog-ear and highlight
and secretly slightly plagiarize
and I will be
the 889 plants growing
in your backyard,
sparkling for you like replacement diamonds
after the rain
(and better yet I will be the forest
of 889 trees
looming not frighteningly but protectively
and I will be
the 889 strides
of golden brick road
to follow to your favorite coffee shop every day
and I will be
the 889 innocent peaks
at a delicate pinkie finger or a nose
(because a delicate rose such as you
cannot be seen all at once and truly appreciated)
and I will even be
the 1 778 pairs of eyes
stealing my own looks,
and hopefully you will not be afraid anymore.
I will split myself
6 228 parts
to make you feel comfortable
and if this is not a love poem
then it is an apology
and anger/resentment/not really/how could I resent you/you are everything
what I'm trying to say is,
we could go so many different ways,
and what's one more expression of love to you
after all you've been through.
Path of destruction and rebuild,
Traffic crazy, in the car ahead,
Face yelling at a speaker phone,
Zig-zag path like the road owner,
3:05 late so a five o'clock date,
And a seagull sits right on the line,
Patient Mockery so sublime,
The seagull "walks the line"
Waiting can be a hating game,
That would be a vacation shame,
So now the seagull is not alone on the line.
If it's an adjective it's a word
which qualifies or limits a noun
don't take me back to school
already I'm wearing a frown
If it's a noun it's a word
used as a name of a thing substantive
don't bore me with your rules
I have colourful creativity to give
If it's a pronoun it's a word
to replace a noun
that noun didn't last long
must've had a meltdown
If it's a verb it's part of speech
expressing an action or being
in our sphere we use poetic licence
try it, it's so freeing
my worst trauma
beaten out of existence
comes from the stereotypical white male
that have internalized the stereotypical white male
I cannot any longer
being treated as that stereotypical white male
in order to heal
I need space from that projection
in order to escape the politics
to be allowed to expeirence and exhaust
my trauma in society
that is why from now on I am to be referred to as
black her preferably
my legal gender pronoun
is black woman