I wanted to wake up, new
to discard all dreams of darkness and
replace memory with you.
I smiled at the mirror this morning.
Marveled at the brown skin beginning to
grow gold on my face.
The sun is out;
doesn’t mean the moon isn’t there, hiding.
You said fear is impossible when you’re here
yet here you are, shining.
Glowing yellow, forcing everything
underneath to glitter golden, to glisten, to pretend to
watch you change position and provide room for night
leaving space in darkness for the crescent to lay.
I wake up to new days but,
I remain the same.
Soul searching, squeezing inner turmoil between dirty nails
earth and dust intertwine like my past and present
remembering things I never knew
squeezing lemons and sour juice
drip through broken fingers, no plaster this time
no one to hold them together
just the lemon there and you…
squeezing it like a stress ball,
But how come you feel so out of control all the time
how come, when you
apply pressure so thoughtfully to the painful parts of yourself
hoping your fist clenches memory hard enough for it to die?
Its smoke curls into fingers clawing to grasp
my ceiling is a barrier.
My ceiling is the top of a small cage.
my room is wide enough to sleep in.
To do 4 walking lunges all the way across.
It is big enough for me,
the ceiling is high enough for me.
But I can hear its shrill screams
rising from the wick
blaring deep orange; struggling to dance with the irregular rhythm
of my breath.
Baby begs me to breathe deeper, to exhale louder, to
shoot for the ceiling
to scream at my beloved ceiling
until it crumbles
and the night sky
unfurls a new stage,
a curtain to unveil fresh air,
a fiercer, less uniform, wind.
Baby begs me to dance too.
The crack of a spine splintered bone
the prick that draws blood
From one pointing finger
Shelves frozen over with guilt.
Swiftly she runs clean hands across
Only to watch the dust collect again.
I don’t speak just to fill up empty spaces. My words are not brittle drywall or cement capable of being worn apart by unwelcome intruders. My words are not temporary, so why should I treat them as such?
I wonder how many hours of our lives we spend making small talk. How much time has been wasted on the condition of the weather, as it literally speaks for itself in front of our faces. How much energy has been spent pretending that we are miserably tired and burdened with extremely busy schedules? We are busy enough to make small talk though.
Why do we like to fill in empty spaces? Why are we so afraid of silence? What is so terrifying about letting the air around us speak? The air that gives us our life, our power, and ironically, our own voices.
Your skin slides like silk, spills sweet like wine
Sheets of gold, folded
Your stretch marks merely shadows
Indicating what once was solid
And though you frown at your reflection
Reality knows the truth
That you are only gazing down
At a mirror that kneels before you
So shift your perception
Reclaim your rightful throne
Lift the weeping child from your seat
Begin to feel at home
This body cannot breathe
Unless you reap the tears you’ve sown
Only you have watered this garden
Only you have seen it grow