Untitled

Words rested on the tip of my tongue

when you pulled me into your embrace.
I don't know how to talk to you but I can
still smell the scent of your cologne and
see your sparkling baby blues reflecting
the warmth of the sun... and that wink.

But like the lioness pacing her cage I'll do
anything to protect my pride from the
gazes of antelopes and hyenas alike,
all watching, waiting, and mesmerized by
the sway of my hips as I go in for the kill. 

Why Can't We Get Our Shit Together?

A call and response of two hearts breaking, 

a hand reaching out in the dark looking
for answers or rope or even a light switch. 
But instead she finds a clammy hand, 
damp from brushing my own tears away. 

Why can't we get our shit together?

Because capitalism and fear and ignorance
and the way we're neurologically programmed
and the environmental factors that lay on top of that. 
Because of individualism and egos and pride.
Because apparently kindness isn't easy
enough for people to practice it and hate 
is easier than active listening and empathy. 
Because hugs are questioned and kisses 
are traps and smiles hold double meanings. 

Why can't we get our shit together?

A call and response of two hearts breaking, 
for the angels and the devils and those still
around navigating through everyday terrors.
You are the love of my life, my friend, my partner, 
the one I look up to, the one I look towards. 

And for the life of me I do not know the
why and the how and the what and when.
And for the life of me all I would like to do
in this moment, in this thought, in this pain
is embrace you and sit next to you on the floor
pomegranate juice dripping onto paper towels
and a worn pack of fifty-two cards until 

We get our shit together.

6/2/16

I feel terribly guilty, but all I can think of 

all I can repeat is... it was not you. 
It was not you trembling to the tune of 
a metallic bang bang and that thump. 
You were not cowering in fear in our home, 
the place where we grew and fell together,
wrapped in insecurities and ambition and
those times we slid while running in the rain. 

I repeat to myself that it was not you and
the breath I held deep in my lungs today 
releases into a long grateful sigh of relief.
Because it was not you, it was someone else. 
They could have been another's first love, 
or they could have been a stranger, or
they could have been someone's... someone. 

And today, for them, my heart paused and
remembered the pain of saying goodbye. 
Because while it was not you it still was
a bear trying to navigate through the woods.
What seemed like a functional ecosystem 
was actually a trap with razor sharp teeth.

Fear

I have earned the right to not have to 

teach the valleys and curves of my body. 
Through the physical scars, the ones that
remind me of the times I have fallen, and
through the invisible scars, the ones that 
remind me of the times I have risen, and
through the white hot, searing pain that
accompanied each and every one of them,
I have paid my dues and settled my debts.

I have earned the right to not have to
be patient and understanding and giving. 
Technicolor explosions now color my view
of intimacy and relationships and trust,
and I navigate the path forward through
a warped rear view mirror distorted by, 
or should I say haunted by?, ghosts of
a past I have tried to hide and run from.
Call me Little Miss Too Fucked Up To F(x).

I have earned the right to not have to
remove the walls I built brick by brick. 
They were constructed to create space, 
to stand the test of time and at night when 
Forrest Gump is running through my mind.
A facade of a welcoming marigold sun is
really just the front end of a practical set,
practical in its ability to keep hidden the 
earthy tones nestled behind the glare.

I have earned the right to not have to 
live without mistrust and apprehension.
If insanity is doing the same things, the
same people, over and over and over again, 
then I am ready to escape Shutter Island. 
Positioned in the blocks, waiting for a gunshot, 
I am ready to sprint at the sound of danger.
What may be prescribed as fear could easily 
be ascribed as the roots of twisted logic.

I have earned the right to not have to
be fully transparent or an open novel. 
You can't skim and digest at first glance 
without spending time drowning from words 
swimming in tiny pirouettes overloading
your primary visual cortex with imagery. 
To borrow a quip from a city of brotherly love,
a Monet and I both look well composed 
until magnification proves we are a bit dotty. 

I have earned the right to not have to
be so liberal with how I ration out my heart.
I will march into battle for those chosen, 
otherwise I kindly and strongly recommend 
you sidestep out of the path in front of me. 
Because when all is said and all is done, 
I have earned the right to a fierce love for
the ones I let in, the people in my community. 
I have earned the right to at least that.

Mar-i-on-ette

The no on the tip of my tongue

Trembled there for what felt like
seconds, minutes, hours, days.
A broken record, a strategy of
I just need to make do until the
sun rises and I can slink into the day. 
When they propose fight or flight, 
they never quite reference 
the third option of survival. 

As much as you have convinced
yourself that we are the same, 
that we tumbled into a category
explaining the nature of our actions,
our nurture was, is fundamentally unique.
Because when I said no, when I said no 
you countered with a yes that
was insistent and terrifying and
left little room for interpretation.

There is a recurring dream that
haunts my sleep from time to time.
I am being stalked by a lion, it has
the clear intentions of harming me.
I did not realize that the Sandman
could drift into my reality hiding
behind a lavish dinner invitation.