It's been a while since I've shared poetry on my site because I've wanted to make sure I can submit my work according to certain guidelines for literary journals. But being inspired by all the 30/30 posts of poetry that I've been seeing on my Facebook timeline and most recently, Beyonce's very poetic Lemonade, I wanted to share. Nothing is really polished, but comments and feedback are welcomed (and editors are welcome to ask me for my work - I'll certainly take it down for you :D ). Enjoy.
Have you ever wanted to say something inappropriate?
Where your mouth itches like burnt sun,
when your fingers constantly dance tap
to every person you have loved and teared over?
You constantly fight oxygen from forming words
that house a legion of pounding emotions,
knowing you will be, you are the screaming
woman on the other side of the door,
where silence pretends you’re not there.
Everyday I want to tell you, “I miss your skin.”
Your arms smooth, your shaking hands.
I never got to kiss your shaking hands.
My brain is in a constant loop of “I love you”,
packed neatly in cross-legged politeness of “How do you do?”
Good girls aren’t supposed to beg for water.
We are supposed to wait with blindfolds for flowers
to pass across our knuckles, for armor to get down
on one knee and cup devotion upon our cheeks.
But I am not good. I am loving. I am kind.
But I am not good. I’ve watched duplicates of
my heartbeat swirl down drains and thrown
the completely devoted from my altar.
I tell you “I love you” and you say, “Okay.”
You say, “Okay.” yet everyday I want
to tell you, “I miss your skin. Your shaking hands.”
I want to be openly clandestine in your shower,
in city parks, on the train platform, watching coming storms.
Feed me burnt sun, if you can’t give me water.
Tell me you’ll think about it, that you’ve thought about.
Tell me if I am being inappropriate. Tell me to go.
Tell me to go scratch my itch somewhere else and come back friendly.
Or tell me, wait. I’m not ready, but wait.
There’s a chance, but wait. Tell me “I miss your skin.”
but I have to find a way to love mine.
I can wait in the pews, until you invite me to the alter.
I’ve never been the girl to deny dirty water.
agent across my chest,
the passage to air.
I wait for
this grenade to leak,
but instead I stare
at a screen, watching green
dots flash into one
minute, two minutes.
Breathe a little, until the next
flash to remind me that time
bombs cause silence, not noise.
Her ears filled with disguised voices.
Nose bright, raw falls to mouth.
Train conductor muffled. She needs tuning.
Lips feel numb. It's the stroke.
It's the fear of falling coins.
Everything is blood, once it leaks.
Tuesday mornings know nothing of Sundays.
This Judas of a body remembers.
You graduated from half moon wishes.
To denial, another winner to head.
I have finally cracked the code.
I'll have to answer bloody, mouthed.
Politeness is the disease of the colored child. Of the poor child. Of the child who thought everyone was kind until they weren't. Politeness is the cousin of permission. Permission is the burden of women who never stopped being little girls begging for approval or men never knowing when to get approval since boyhood. Be polite soft one. You can’t get in trouble this way.
As she made me cry
in the ruins of childhood,
scattered on top
of an ancient television set -
the box filled with 76 winters.
Luckily, those memories floated
back into the clouds,
the basement door swelled
from the storm.
Cherry blossoms arrived
as if on cue,
her diaphragm uncaged.
She'd only remember green -
open-mouthed seed bearing
a name in the dead
kingdom of Eden.
Close proximity to him was dangerous. Miles of other people’s lives never stopped the occasional ache, but filling their holes with other people’s fingers kept it at bay. A rim of tequila and a broken gate on 42nd Street brought rain to her knees, the gun pressed to her cheek in a bathroom stall of headlights. She was a big girl now, so she toss her tongue indifferently between his cracks. Sensing the tiniest measure of feelings, nostalgia turned quickly into silent contempt. Desire was the switch, but addiction was the God that never left between her ears.
His name gasped everything.
go take a walk on
You’re an outlaw
on a gypsy piano,
on the back
on your way
Who told you
the moon was
your child, when
seen the sun?
I was told
silence was not
the way stories
It’s nice that she recognizes
you from behind -
a mailbox full of tears,
locked out of your landfill
where ice cream cartons
and pictures of almost
zombie heartbeats await
to be stains on your pillow.
One look at her face,
C: You didn’t get Oprah today.
J: I might be getting fired.
I check my phone, but
all I see is whiteness.
It’s never been so silent.
I turn around to head
to management, before
I managed to realize,
you gently press me against the wall
like a kid finger painting, no regard
to cover up costs, guests coming over
in twenty minutes, or how loud you
make me scream in furious passion.
i draw maps on your stomach with my breath
skin damp with summer and laziness,
salty from spending our time working out
our hips and spider limbs.
my hair is still damp as the spaghetti boils over.
your parents are downstairs with fresh flowers.
You were the palms of God
until your lips ducked
out of sight, in the cleft
of my pithy ardor
where your breath reduced me
to burnt knees, crossed.
Draped in torn
sackcloth, I bewail the ash
smeared across the last
place your lips
touched, face buried
daybreak to thirsty chlorophyll /