My Brain Is
A funeral with hoarded dead flowers but no headstone. A wasteland of vows made to the unmarried. A washed-out mouth. A slap in the face from my reflection. A closet of wrong sizes. A battle I showed up to with no protection. A bird in a cage without a door. A migraine howling in a bright room. A denied embrace. A spoon of spoiled milk fed like fresh cream to my hungry mouth. A grave of sentiments shunned. A rouge pinned to cheeks in the shape of a smile I’ve learned to fake.
How Other People See Me
When I wrinkle my forehead or tilt it just so,
others get – nervous
And my open mouth,
troublesome,
outspoken,
yet rarely
ever heard
and my ass is too big, too flat,
a place to be hit.
I often tell myself
I am wonderful,
worthy,
and loved.
It sometimes takes days to believe it.
I’ve always known
I am not the pretty one in the family.
The Cost
Listen to what
I don’t say,
my teeth
turn tomb
for a tongue
too tired to tell you
the real.
My core is empty, hoping
you will ask
the right question.
My desire is buried
in sadness. All I want
is someone
to make love to me until
the pain goes away.
I need ecstasy to eradicate
everything except joy.
I know the cost.
Ideation
I was driven into darkness
before I could drive a car.
Felt it slowly consume
my spirit,
my soul.
No one taught me
how to fight myself,
yet I battle this malevolence
with only a gasp
as a weapon.
Survival is breathing
yet, sometimes, misery
is a mighty seductress
and other times,
I see the ploy.
But this demon
is as much a part of me
as my breath.
And I am trying
to find my belonging.
Fighting a reflection
that says otherwise.
So we wage a war
more often
than not
and yet
I am still here.
Addict
I like me a pretty boy.
Even better if he’s a bad boy, too
And by bad, I mean
emotionally unavailable.
I like a bad boy
who pretends to be good.
I’ll give in to all his red flags.
Paint them green.
Call me an artist,
writing a relationship
when he desires
only fiction.
The pretty ones turn into ghosts
who make love
only to themselves.
Bad boys who swipe right on curves
but avoid my belly.
Think the world is flat
but like the roundness of my tits.
Wanna choke me, but would never
try to lift me up.
I can’t get over the pretty ones.
Those eyes get me every time
Text: “I hope you’re still writing,”
like they wanna be in my poetry,
just not in my life.
I wanna be under their spell,
but they break me
with their cellophane thoughts.
I like me a pretty bad boy
some spice, mostly sugar
and I am a diabetic.
Their mouths twist like candy
turn promises into cavities.
See, I draw near the ones
who think they’re a man…
But want mommies instead of lovers.
Addicted to their toxicity.
I wash out my eyes with cyanide
let the sweetness of our skin sour
in the pit of lost memories.
Scrape the softness
of their lips
from mine.
They are too sweet,
I am onto their angel lies.
Turn their tongues putrid.
Those pretty ones are bad ones, too.
And I am no longer hungry.