Dishes in the sink;
sweat stains on the couch;
the smell of old wood.
Light filters through windows
in prisms of color
that streak the ground in pastel rainbows.
Particles of dust dance in the air–
an everlasting waltz.
His skin smells of soap and spice.
The stubble on his cheek
leaves trails of red across soft, pale skin.
Calloused and scarred fingers
trace gentle circles on my hips,
reminding me ever gently
that this is love;
this is life;
this is home.
Worthy to be loved
Worthy to be seen
Worthy to bear the fruit
To stand in the shadows of kings
to bear the burdens of artist and ingenue
to hold the weight of the future in my womb
Unworthy to share machinations of thought
Unworthy to be heard
Unworthy to choose a path beyond the cultivated garden
where my mother was beaten to submission
where her light was stolen and smothered
where she did no greater good than the day she bore a son
One day you’ll be president
One day you’ll be Queen
One day the world will stand in awe of what you’ve done
A little lie because we don’t want them to know
a little lie to give some hope
a little lie because you’re worthy to be loved
but only in body
and even then
only for a while
Static burns in my chest
scraping raw the edges
where hope meets reality.
I once dreamed in technicolor
though the world tells me
that black and white is the limit.
Who are you to stop me
from bleeding color into life;
a desperate hope though it is?
I have ink for blood,
and I’m not afraid to use it–
to lose the pigment that fills me.
Though the static leaves scars
and the dream has long faded,
There is nothing else.
We started off our ‘20s with a
Bang Bang Bang.
The only upside is that things can
only go up from here.
When you’re living rock bottom
the basement looks like a ceiling.
The glass is so pretty
the way the sunlight sparkles through;
we stand mesmerized like ants
as all hope burns away.
Those fantasies and dreams
were never built to last;
like straw houses standing alone
while we hold our breath–
the promises were broken before my first gasp,
and will stay that way
long after my last.
They call me an optimist;
I’m afraid they might be right.