I can teach you how
to fold into yourself;
do not shy away
when he kisses you.
When his stubble
presses into your cheek
do not say no.
Believe him when he promises
it will feel good.
When his manhood
lodges into your mouth
pretend you are hungry
That you are aching.
You are a dog
frothing at the mouth.
Even if you feel nothing.
It was then that you learned
to crawl into yourself. To sacrifice your flesh
beneath men who claimed to love you until
your bones grew too heavy and they could
no longer bring themselves to touch you.
How many times did you slot
pieces of him into yourself? Hunt for the breaths he took
in your presence until you had enough skin
to dress up the skeleton of his memory?
And when you realised you are no god,
that you couldn’t breathe life into his ribs,
how many times did you set yourself on fire?
Thank you friend.
Some days, I like to imagine
that perhaps he is grateful
I do not let myself believe him
when he tells me I am beautiful.
I imagine his sigh of relief,
a dying cigarette puff,
A last minute call back,
a twenty dollar note wedged in a Bible.
I imagine he fears the day
I begin to see myself as he does
Will be the one I leave.
When one carcass of a man convinced
you to love the stench of decay,
you set root in a landfill of his sin
and hung your heart on a cypress tree
for the vultures.
I wonder how many times he promised
loving an empty ribcage was worth
the gilded collapse into yourself.
Perhaps you were poisoned,
taught that chasing ghosts of men,
whose love letters caressed your eyes
like an afterthought, would mask
the taste of skeleton bones.
You are not a dog.
It’s half past midnight. I’m sitting here not quite sure what to do with myself— or this blog.
It’s my birthday today marking two years since I started this blog. I never thought I’d stick to this blogging project. For two years, I’ve gained a great following, honed my poetic skill and met some lovely people I won’t likely forget any time soon.
But, between you and I, this blog had outlived it’s purpose and as all things which pass their sell-by date, it has to go.
I usually take birthday reflections to evaluate my life and see where I’ve come from and just where the fuck I’m going. There are days when I feel like my life is a car doing its best to maneuver through a thick fog only to careen off the highway and into the bottomless pit of some unseen abyss.
I’m going to do a two year reflection in this blog post. Because the double time span will help me see just how much I’ve traveled and how much further I have to go. Because this is final.
I am sorry
I forgot to hate myself.
My confidence was so ugly
you couldn’t stand
the sight of me holding
my shoulders back, my spine erect,
your ears bled at the sound
of my laughter.
is a difficult name I keep trying to pronounce.
When you left me
my hands ran along your side of my bed
in the fashion of a tongue on the gums
where a tooth is missing.
How I could I possibly
love this skin, these bones,
these asymetrical breasts,
Silly me. How dare I
love the grotesque, that which
only you know how to embrace.
How could I possibly love
I am sorry
I took to the dance floor
like I had conquered something.
That I used lip gloss as a sword,
the eye shadow palette
was war paint.
you gluttonous monster.
was never enough.
I am sorry
how to forgive myself.
On the morning you find lipstick
stains too bright to be yours on the collar
of the shirt you bought him last Christmas
Wash your mouth out with soap. Hide tissues
in your sock drawer, stand naked by the mirror,
watch your reflection with the lights off.
When finally he tastes the foam and stops kissing you,
fall asleep on the couch that is his bed,
douse his pillow in your sweat.
Burn your photographs.
All of them. And on the nights
your palms itch for him, remember the ashes.
How I wish I’d found a mocking bird
singing to a cherry tree,
laughing on a bending bough
starring at my feet, dear me!!
The Mocking Bird
and mocking bird
and swinging bough
and blowing wind
and starring eyes
and dancing sun.
And contorted clouds
I want to see this cherry tree
Sheen brown skin
That has made a wandering bird
fall so deeply in love
tossing away its teasing tongue,
its sneering roar.