You told me you admired me for my ability to ready poetry with such emotion, but you didn't know I was using it to tell my story. You told me cancer was a ***** and for me to read about it to hundreds so I could win a medal was inspirational. I accepted your commentary as though it were coming from god himself. But the truth is, I didn't and don't have the heart to tell you the truth. I don't want your pity stare. I don't want you to know you're losing me. I want to spend the last of my days with you as you are and I promise not to say I love you because I don't want you to say it back, only to be forced to let me go. All I can say now, is that i'm sorry. When you find this, please forgive me.
Love,
   Marie

Set free the water―
do not harm the spring.
A short poem will write your
theme in air, without asking.

The unbaked bread
will feed the oven.
And the silent prayers
will seal the lips.

The bride of desert―
weeps. No palms, no ariels.
You run over the ruins
to find the tools.

Now breathing stops. A
hammer strikes.

It was the tragedy
of a brainless tumor.
Aneurysm brings the stroke.

I don't believe in heaven but i like to picture you there. The idea of you being forever gone is too much for the fragile layer of smiles I've stretched over the crumbling remains of my psyche so i try to convince myself that you're out there, hand in hand with whatever god you believed in while I stay in here hand in hand with my shadow and a bottle of liquor and I know i know I know you would hate the thought of me praying for you so i try my best not to but whenever im outside trying to find you amongst the stars I light a cigarette and find myself hoping the smoke will make its way to your side.

my heart nearly stopped every time i had to cross the street
so let’s thank the queen for writing it down
before she’s just another thing i have to step over
all the rest have tickled my feet so far
and everything under construction reminds me that these days
the only remedy seems to be better luck and more cloud cover

i’ve been racing to crash on the couch
just to wake up to see if i have time for it all
and i want the stereotype to be true so i have nothing to cry about  
with the way things are going
you’d tell me not to be so brutal to myself
but the thrill i used to know is now paying its dues to the concrete

i was almost convinced i wasn’t asleep
when she whispered paris
nothing, everything may have changed
so this is not like anything i’ve never meant:

my heart nearly stopped with the regret of not talking to you
it's hard killing birds when you don't have any stones and
besides this time i think i've really done it
two days and this is already my favorite story but
second chances don't have to be so mysterious
maybe i just wanted to see you smile again

i should have said it w/o one of and the s after the L
still choosing o over x
and your pull showed my hands a home in the back of your denim
two across the channel makes the significant not so, if you want it
i’ll keep looking for you so long as you
don’t stop drawing me maps

if i died in my indecision then
your mouth showed me heaven
you’re the closest thing to purpose
i’ve ever tasted

i wish you knew how much i mean that

the morning i left when you were still
sleeping but i woke up early to watch the
sun rise and wash the palm trees every color you ever
loved and when the wind blew it whispered through the
palm leaves and the
ivy vines and the
old wood that it was going
to miss me too

I stand in the middle of the room
My classmates are commanded to listen to me
I am the 14th person to present and so far, everyone has done a good job

I stand in the middle of the room
I begin to saw the name of my project
“My Poem”
I cannot remember what it was about
I do remember, what I felt

I stand in the room,
Hoping that everyone feels what I felt when I was writing it
I felt excited, my stomach had ‘butterflies’ I think
I felt the heat in my heart and the cold on my shoulders.
I felt the tingles all over my body, and the air escaping me

I stood in the middle of the room
I stand in the middle of the room
I was in the middle of the room and said
“My poem”
I heard a chuckle.

I ignored it because the ‘in love’ heart in my chest was more excited than It should have been
I continues and my voice began to play tricks on me
And the r’s rolled and the words were suddenly in another language
My mind still ignored it and continues
Because I felt I could write, and read this and everyone could love it

I stood in the middle of the room,
I waited for the, applause, the smiles, the congrats, or even a simple ‘good job’ like everyone else
Instead…
My teacher said, work on pronunciation. She said it again. Pro-noun-ci-a-tion
Ok. ‘Work on grammar.’ ‘Work on sentence structure’
“Work on being American” the chuckle said
Or the person who chuckled?

It didn’t mean much, you know
I loved writing so much that it did not matter
I would be a writer, I would continue to
STAND in the middle of the room and share my talent
And when I did, he chuckled
She chuckled, I was Mexican

Not a writer. Writers can’t be Mexican
Unless you write in Spanish and in Mexico
But I was too American for that at this point…

SO the next time I wrote I was ashamed,
Maybe if someone else wrote my writing?
But it didn’t matter,
When the teacher began reading,
The chuckle reminded the class it was the ‘Mexican’ who wrote it

“Mi nina” My mom would say
She reminded me that no only was I Mexican
I was a woman,
Only men thrive in this world
I believed it
And that is why my name is ‘The Voice’
Not my actually name,
Disclosure: I accept criticism on how to better my writing
NOT on what to write or on my background

I’ve sat in throngs of people,
between seas and seas,
knowing there’s a small chance
salt gets called by its name
CaCl2 instead.

I’m constantly aware
I am one compound;
full, contradictory,
Knowing people will find
In the ocean of things
More salt as oceans evaporate,
Lifting to clouds,
Till only enough is left for us to swim in.

A little girl,
collects the beautiful things,
the Seashells people always want
—conversation,
joy,
money—
In ziplock bags,
with water and the
handful who can handle it,

And we,
Undesirable
stay in the sea,
Brushing from horizon
to horizon,
until we’re swept up,
Or drown someone.