Sensory Overload

I have this need to cry.

It feels like I’ve lost already;

like the tears are welling up in my eyes, but they’re not.

It feels like I’ll fall from lack of will to stand but I don’t fall.

It feels like I’ve given up, but I haven’t.

It’s like all the sounds:

clings, clangs, bangs, whaps, chattering, yelling, bustling, more bustling, more chattering, more bustling still.

too many people touching, pulling, yanking, poking, prodding, needing;

too loud

too fast

too bright

too much - all at once: smothered.

It’s so loud all around and it feels like I’ve given up 

but they wont let me.

Favorite Outfit

I have cancer and it sucks.

It’s all I think about all day.

“When will it stop hurting”

“When will I get better”

“Will I ever get better”

eating makes me sick.

All I want to do is wallow in self pity;

concede defeat. 

I want to lie around all day and feel sorry for myself and know I’ll never get better.

the most masochistic part: I don’t want to get better.

This is me, sick and feeble and weak;

This me is all I’ve ever known and it’s eating me alive

and sometimes I hate myself for it but I love the way I wear my sickness - 

it’s my favorite outfit.

I’m dying.

I hate; but all the while: I love

this cancer.

Did I say cancer?

I meant love.  

Dear You,

Dear you,

I haven’t thought about you at all today. All day, unremarkable event after unremarkable event and how I love you never crossed my mind. I think today was a small victory in a never-ending war. I think today, I won.

Ghost

I rebuke your ghost your ghost,

that haunts me

that possesses me

to hate myself.

that taunts me into corners

to scream at me.

With eyes closed, I rebuke your ghost,

who I can’t touch or feel but only

blow away with a heavy sigh

or a hyperventilated breath.

With palms out, I rebuke your ghost,

to push away

to stand my ground

to unfailingly weak willingly stand my ground.

With a heavy heart, I refuse your ghost

for it’s only your ghost who loves me.

Oh, I Can Love

It’s not enough to feel this way.

You have to be able to tell someone and have them know.

They have to feel it, too.

Its not enough just to feel this way.

Who am I?

Only 24 hours ago I could tell you:

assured.

But now, 

It’s not enough to feel this way.

I thought I knew who I was.

The think which I am truly good at is love and 

Oh

I can love.

But today, 

I love and I feel this way.

It’s not enough to feel this way, 

I have to tell you and you have to know.

My chin quivers involuntarily,

my cheeks push up my eyelids and squeeze the tears from my eyes.

They salty sadness collects at a point on my chin and my nose.

Snot runs down and drips off but I don’t have the will to wipe my face.

Four inhales: hu hu hu hu

and a sharp exhale: huh

I thought I knew who I was.

I’m fetal in my head - 

I’m wrapped and warm but cold, still.

I’m crying for all the things I thought I knew for sure but that weren’t.

It’s not enough to feel this way.

Like everything in my body stopped,

waiting for me to give in, to stop breathing 

just because it hurts.

I can’t make you feel this way, I would never want to.

But it’s not enough just to feel this way,

I don’t know who I am.

Jenga

Every trait is a Jenga cube.

For 19 years I’ve built up this Jenga tower and

each cube is who I am.

Compassion is resting on goodness and selfish is resting on uncompromising 

and so up and so up and so up...

I’ve meticulously gathered and placed Jenga cubes for my whole life

learning about myself all the while.

Finally, now I’ve done it.

I’m satisfied;

with my Jenga tower

and 

you’re the bully who stomped on the floor; all the pieces crashing down.

I suppose I have to start again

but where and with what piece?

Selfish Kisser

I want him to kiss me. 

I put myself in situations where we’ll be close or we’ll have to touch - 

where it’s unavoidable - 

or where we’ll just be near to one another; where he’ll have to think about me in the capacity I’m wishing he would.

Sometimes, I’ll close my eyes and hope he’ll surprise me with a kiss but I know he wont.

The truth is, he never will.

and later, when I’m alone, I cry because I only want him to kiss me so I’ll stop wanting you to kiss me.

No matter how beautifully spontaneous or romantic or perfect he could kiss me, it would never be you.

I can’t imagine anyone loving me the way I know you have, the way you could again,

I can’t imagine loving anyone like I love you still.

I can’t imagine kissing someone else and not thinking about you.

Maybe, I’ll just always see you.

I want him to kiss me so I can see you.

Lion

The sand beneath her feet is hard and packed tightly from a lifetime of pawfalls;

charging and pouncing and stalking. 

She’s regal as her shoulder blades rotate like the wheels and gears of a train.

Her golden coat is dirty from hunting and preying and playing but still it shines in the desert winds. 

She’s a monster who can only fight her nature and die or give in to the beast and hate herself.

Hate herself and live.

Her eyes give her away;

they’re big and wet; sad and beautiful.

She’s trapped inside her predator - inside her nature

which feeds on her weakness: her hunger

and so she lives.

Life's Little Imperfections

To enjoy life’s little imperfections is to enjoy this moment on a not particularly bright day by a highway.

In my mind, I’m wearing a white sheer linen dress and no shoes.

In my mind, I’m laying in the middle of a never-ending field of the softest grass and the most beautiful array of soft wild flowers. 

In my head, I’m letting the wind softly blow my voice toward the trees in the distance which seems so infinitely far away. 

In my head, the sun peaks through the clouds at my skin as if a child from behind her mother’s leg and giggles and my skin giggles back at the rays.

In my head, it’s sweet and here and now, it’s good to be in my head. 

Ice Bucket

I wish I were a tiny little person (like Thumbalina) who lived in a bucket of ice.

I wish I could squeeze between the cubes like I was snuggling into bed.

I could slide against the slippy sides and slip through cracks between them to sleep on their slidy outsides.

I wish I lived in a bucket of ice.

Never getting hot, never being dry, never found but always lost in an ocean of ice cubes and reflections of my own colors bouncing off cubes like a fun house of ice and bodies.

I wish I was lost in the ice - 

little and lost. 

Reflection

Sitting in the corner of the tile shower,

knees to chest

arms embrace knees

She cries because she simply can’t hold it in another moment.

She cries because she simply can’t smile another time; not without him.

Her hair clings to her, strangles her.

The scolding water makes thick steam and the thick steam makes each breath, each heave, heavy;

if heavier than the regret and sadness already in her chest.

She stands and the blurry mirror reflects her,

truly. 

You’re the only one who knows and as the fog clears, there she was

there I was 

naked.

The Last Kind Act

“It was the last kind act”

the black tourniquet hung behind her as he told us:

“this really is the last kind act”

the second tourniquet of the room enters.

“she really was special”

He kisses her hand.

How many people does he say that to?

They’re all special but not to him.

She was my best friend when I needed her to be 

and then for a while, she wasn’t

but she was always still there; waiting for me at home.

Today she’s not coming home.

The pink liquid death just sat there before;

staring at her.

“it really is the last kind act”

I got the first tissue.

Standing back, 

not petting, 

not holding, 

not comforting just standing back with tears and apologies.

I’m sorry if you ever felt unloved or if I ever yelled or if I ever forgot how much you loved me.

Her feeble veins gulped up pink death and

the tourniquet was removed from her limp paw.

and this was the last kind act.

Balloon

It’s terribly unfortunate that one should be so singularly concerned with something so infantile and unimportant as that which I’ve become enthralled with: A missing balloon.

Not released but blown away. And though my understanding is that the balloon must float away into the endless abyss of blue and cloud so that it may deflate over some other part of the earth and die on new land; that some new child will walk on or play on or fly kites on or hold balloons on - yes; though I understand all that, there is still this momentary sadness. The short-lived longing to have back what is only just out of reach and surely happy to be free of the constraints of this ordinary life. There is still this mourning for that which I clung to and which I allowed to be my happiness for the time. Yes, I understand that all things are always turning, but I still wish I could hold on to the string of my read balloon and stop the wheel from spinning long enough to tell her thank you and I love you. 

As she is gone, I tell her thank you, and oh, how I love you.

I Cannot Forget The Woman Who Disgusts Me

I woke up this morning

disgusted;

with myself.

The taste of disdain

on my lips;

agonizing loneliness crushes my hips.

I woke up this morning

sick;

with anguish.

Jiggling fat at my thighs;

paralyzing sadness in my eyes.

I woke up this morning

wreaking;

of should haves and can’ts.

The pang of “hideous” hits my tongue.

The sting of all the things I should have done.

Sometimes I see what they see

beauty;

in this body costume

in this disguise.

But sometimes it’s just all sadness leaking from me.

War wages for my body;

on and on I’m guilded from doubt.

A battle for my parts is beating;

slow and slow a fight for my heart. 

Things I Should/Should Have Know(n)

What would happen

How to be silly and grown up all at once

What he meant by that

I wasn’t ready

I was ready

How to handle this

How old I was and to act that age

It was coming

It would happen again

How badly it would hurt

It was going to be okay

What to do

It wouldn’t go away

I was in over my head

It wouldn’t last

I couldn’t do it

I could do it

What A Thing Is

Sometimes a bed is just a bed and nothing more and then

sometimes, a bed is a sanctuary to make love in and to dream beautiful dreams in and then sometimes a bed is just a bed and nothing more.

Sometimes a hand is just a hand and nothing more but then

sometimes, a hand is a symbol of your protection, of your love, of a feeling that will never go away no matter how many tears you cry to wash away the memory but then sometimes a hand is just a hand and nothing more.

Sometimes a heart is just a heart and nothing more; beating, pumping, providing the pulse of life and then

sometimes, a heart is the feeling box that pumps pain and fear and hope and love. 

But then sometimes a heart is just a heart and nothing more, pumping from the left atrium to the left ventricle; to all the places blood goes.

Sometimes lips are just lips and nothing more: pursed in concentration, bitten in contemplation. but then

sometimes, lips are more than lips: pursed in hope, bitten in ecstasy. Lips that glisten from the kiss of someone else. 

But then sometimes lips are just lips and nothing more.

Sometimes a sigh is just a sigh and nothing more. A gasp of air expelled from tired lungs. But then

sometimes, sighs are sad and long, exhausted from working or loving or hurting. Sometimes though, a sigh is just a sign and nothing more.

And then there is love which is never just love and nothing more. Love which is never simple or only good. Love which is grueling and miserable. Love which is everything but just a word; love. Love which is challenging and sad, short-lived and lonely.

What are things if they are only things and nothing more?

Things doing only what they must and nothing more?

Some Time Ago I Felt

I miss my life so much from when I was happy that I’m forgetting to live it now.

My life is no longer a series of beautiful moments as much as it’s a series of days passing quickly and slowly and insignificantly.

My life was romance.

My companion’s love for me was as unconditional as mine was for him and had no bounds. 

My job was a joy and not a task or obligation. 

I was young and perfect and had my life in front of me.

My future was marvelously uncertain and all my decisions were yet to be made.

But what is more a travesty than the loss of that beautiful life is the ever more real sensation that I’m losing the one I’m living now.

I’ve been swept onto a train and I loved it so much that I didn’t even notice how fast it was moving until I was thrown from it and my whole world shifted in the fall and there’s no more trains.

That I'll Never Know, 3 Part Series

Part I.

There is a woman I’ll never know,

who is beautiful; inside and out.

Who takes nothing for granted and 

who loves to laugh.

She is a woman who is strong and stubborn but

compassionate and open-minded.

She fights for what she wants, what she deserves and for what she believes in wholeheartedly.

She is a woman who works hard and would do anything for love.

She’s a woman has many friends because she is kind and true

and who has many loves because she is exactly who she is and never tries to be anything different. 

There is a woman I’ll never know who would have been perfect.

She is a woman I would have loved and loved, forever.

That I’ll never know her.

The color of her hair, the hue of her eyes, the fullness of her lips;

That I’ll never know the strength of her heart or the pitch of her laugh,

the curve of her cheek or the shape of her nose. 

I’ll never know her because she was never meant to be.

I’ll never know her but I feel like I already did.

I’ll never love her but I feel like I already did.

Part II.

There was a man I never met

whose features were his own and soft.

A man who resented his father for being a military man; 

his father who moved them often;

his father who hardened his son from a child to this man: respectful and boastful

no real opinions of his own, only those which are sure to impress his audience and his peers.

I’ll never know the man who didn’t care how things looked or what people thought of him.

I only know this man

whose weaknesses are cracks in his silver armor filled with gold to neatly disguise and patch together the pieces of his beauty and wealth so no one can see his tattered shirt beneath which protects a finely manicured heart like a well kept secret. 

I’l never know know the man behind the eyes that are so eternally sad.

I’ll never know the man I cal daddy;

the man behind the eyes.

I love him like I could love no man; I want to know him before he was daddy.

I yearn for his approval like I wish to fly to the stars and be overwhelmed by the beauty that came from the explosion,

I long to know him like I long to hold a moon rock and marvel at it;

to wonder from which disaster it has come.

I’ll never know the man behind the eyes like I’ll never hold the beautiful disaster, born a moon rock.

for all the cracks I’ll make in his armor trying to find the heart beneath, he’ll still only guild them with gold and I’ll look into his eyes from outside and wonder.

I’ll love him for the mystery and I’ll love him...

 I call him daddy.

Part III.

There is a man I cannot place whose eyes and hair and bones I’ve stollen. 

Whose nose is round like mine and teeth are small like mine.

A man I’ll wonder about all my life but never place. 

He is a father and a husband and a good man.

He is a kind soul with an accepting heart whose pages are open for his loves to read and know.

He keeps no secrets and is a giver;

as he has given me these ears, which flow right down to my head with no lobe like a mutant or an elf.

He is a man with no shape or form who has no voice or laugh or swagger but only the features he has given me.

He is the chromosomes that grew me like the water to my oleander and I’ll never know him.

I’ll never place the man but for the valleys and mountains of the face in the mirror.

Looked On

I have been looked on

and looked on.

Holding tightly to the weights in my fists

being looked on all the while.

I’m expected to hold tightly,

to never falter at the weight,

to have unfailing strength.

My reddening knuckles, 

which glow white when I squeeze out another jolt of energy,

those knuckles are looked on.

Beads of sweat roll out of the soft opposite of my elbows.

I am looked upon.

The beady eyes of the not-so-anonymous collective unconscious

are all pairs of familiar faces - 

being looked on by mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers;

by friends and by teachers, 

by friends of mothers and friends of fathers:

I am looked on.

The weights I hold, I’ve held often.

I’ve been proud to hold them.

Look how I hold them,

add more weight,

make it harder,

watch me succeed.

But now I’m not holding - not showing

but being looked on as

the hands of my white knuckles shake.

My muscles spasm from holding on.

I’m looked on.

I’ve been proud,

I’m expected to hold them

with chains of obligation, I am shackled to the weight.

Tightly now,

hold them tightly

and as we look upon you;

as you are looked upon - 

learn to love the pain that uncertainty gives you 

as you choose to let go or hold tighter.

We look upon your knuckles, 

white in fists.

We look upon your sweat,

fat in heat.

We look upon your muscles,

twitching in strain.

and as you are looked upon 

and looked on

I am looked on, too

as I hold tightly

that which I might 

let go, 

release,

drop,

were I not so looked upon like you.

Without Even Noticing

A million days have passed sine last I felt your touch.

Silly how the lingering depth of your voice in my memories still sends chills over my body.

There’s something to be said for the security I felt in your arms.

The warmth that encased my body like a cocoon around a new butterfly; beautiful in its humble beginnings but sad and short-lived.

Much of what we had was like the life of the butterfly you are and I am:

In the end I was left with a beautiful memory pinned to black velvet and encased in a shadow box to remain on display in my mind and in my heart, forever.

It’s been a million days since you touched me. 

I remember how softly your rough hands grasped me. 

I remember how with every cell in my body, I loved you.

Those hands of yours, in all kinds of moments, touched me.

Sometimes your hands were puzzle pieces, fitting perfectly with mine:

Interlocked fingers proving an immeasurable bond between two people.

Sometimes, your hands would cradle me in an embrace that never ended.

Sometimes they were forceful hands, having their way with me; 

Pushing, shoving, grabbing, clawing, holding captive. 

Sometimes, they were shaping hands that bent time and wielded passion - 

in goblets, vases and in me.

Sometimes, they were helping hands that pulled me up when I fell or held me close when waters were treacherous or pulled me along when I trailed behind, nearly always losing my way.

Your hands were many things to me, but always they were perfect.

Not a day goes by (and I challenge, not a moment) whenI don’t feel those hands on me, 

On my skin or on my heart.

I loved those hands like I love few things, deep to my marrow. 

It has been a million moments since last your lips touched mine.

and I still feel them lingering there.

A million mights I have suffered the cold and lonely hell of an empty bed and more, an empty heart (just as you left them). 

I plead with a being which I know does not exist to give back to me the thing I’ve lost.

I suffer myself: Be strong.

I suffer myself: Love and live.

I suffer a smile stretched across in hopes that some day, I’ll not will this smile to place but rather just find it there

and I hope too that the lips I so feel warming mine will be more than a memory.

A million words have been spoken since the words I so desperately crave escaped from your mouth to my heart.

A million meaningless words since the time I remember so vividly when words were beautiful and true. 

A million promises have been broken since you broke the one that mattered

The one I so treasured and believed.

A million times I’ve said in the most quiet, desperate reaches of my mind that I would give it all, my everything, to forget.

A million times I’ve beseeched a God who will not listen and who, furthermore, cannot hear my please to take away the hurt of a million tears shed with a million touches, kisses and I love yous at blame.

Then I think about the million kisses, the million touches, the million I love yous still to be had and behind my eyes there’s a smile that snuck out of my heart for just a minute without me even noticing.

Ouija Queen

My Uncle Bobby is a queen,

a flaming homo.

He’s a one man walking gay pride parade - 

the kind who paints his fingernails pink and puts on fake eyelashes and a green mud mask when he’s drunk. 

He says words like “chiren” for children and “mami” instead of mom

and he always asks how I’m “derin’”.

Uncle Bobby shows up for special occasions and then every year or so when he feels like dropping in.

He’ll ask to stay a while and he’ll tell us, momma and I, stories in his ebonic tongue and after a bit of Grey Goose

he’ll walk through the house with foil on his head and a flickering candle in his hands as he stumbles through the halls mumbling things about ghosts and black women.

Uncle Bobby always shows up when it’s important, though, with a card, a hug, a pat on the back with the giant hands of his 6’3’’ frame wearing a freshly pressed suit and smelling like five squirts of a most expensive cologne.

You can’t ever tell about Uncle Bobby. 

As fair-whethered as the seasons, you never know who he’s with or if he’s broke or who or what he’s running from - it always seems like he’s running.

I’m not even sure I know what Uncle Bobby does for a living other than run the best ouija board after a fifth of Captain and a valium. 

I don’t know but I don’t care. 

He’s my gay Uncle Bobby whose not really my uncle -

everybody has one but nobody has one like mine.

I feel like serious conversations were had behind the closed doors of my childhood

but no matter what the conversations were, the best parties were the midnight seances in the living room on a pallet of bread and pots and pans;

making music with wooden spoons.

I love my Uncle Bobby. 

I love that flaming Queen.

I See Them

Those people are my dreams. Not dreams because I want them but nightmares are dreams. Nightmares because they can’t see me. Dreams because I’m standing right there for them. Nightmares because they can’t see me.

Jackie

I see you.

My hand on your back to comfort you,

and I see you;

little and crying

I see you like even he couldn’t after the year of you.

I see into you,

I see how you are,

see how you feel.

I know your pain and your love,

I see you.

How could he hurt you like this?

your tiny body, with you knees pressed to your chest, is quivering, 

convulsing,

maybe from crying or maybe just from being overwhelmed by feeling.

He couldn’t know what he said could do this to you

or he just didn’t care

But I know.

I see you, crying. 

I hold your feet and I wish words were enough to take away your pain;

but they aren’t.

All I can do is see you;

with these eyes,

all the ways that you are, 

here, in my arms, as you cry because of what he did to you,

because of what he said

and I know that no matter if it were you or anyone else, 

I would see you.

See into you, see how you are, 

see how you feel.

New

I remember all the ways things used to be. 

The ways I used to act with you, talk to you.

The was I was with you.

I remember the way I acted - the excuses I made. 

It seems like years and years ago, but then;

I guess it was.

But that was the old and this,

this is the new.

This is the way I act with you now - or

don’t act with you.

These are things we do together.

This is the way I am now,

with you; 

and otherwise.

This is the new.

So out with the old - and in with this new.

This you I know now - the same you but different eyes are seeing you,

my new eyes -

you’re oddly different but exactly the same. 

I miss it sometimes.

I miss the old, the way I was, the things I did - 

I miss the way the old you made me. 

As much as I know how important the new is; change; 

I find that the old is just the same as the new.

I remember every smile I smiled because of you.

I remember every way you made me happy.

But this is the new and I have to be happy now, too.

That Bit Of Flesh, Just There

It’s funny how I can’t remember how his hands felt on me.

I suppose time is eroding away the memory like a slow spring erodes away the rusty bridge that connects me to him.

I feel less for him every moment and I’m proud of that.

I feel stronger without him and I’m proud of that.

I don’t remember his hands on me but I do still remember the way his neck smelled when I hugged him

and the way my whole body warmed when he said he loved me

and how his hair felt in my hands when I kissed him

and how safe, how at rest, I felt when I woke up in his arms.

I may not remember how he touched me but I remember how I loved him and I always will somewhere within myself.

Sometime ago, a bit of flesh, a bit of my heart, died when he left me 

but somedays - like today - I think I feel it beating;

that bit of flesh, just there.