Food For Thought

to undress your body of
what fabricates
your modesty I crave
you
to feel your bareness on my
fingertips taste you
right between my lips to feel
you rub my tongue clean
with your remedial juice
so bad I crave
to get you inside me hard
to think because I crave you
your texture against mine
the melody once
we collide intensely I crave
a bite however messy
I crave you hungry
my pink lady
apple

The Fall

He looks like Autumn
Not like Spring with her
Blooming gardens no
Not like Spring at all
But Autumn with his wilt
Autumn with his hues
A vibrancy unlike his sister
With her enticing allure no
He a candidly vivid presence
Beguiles the race with his misery
Effortlessly

His scent is that of Autumn too
Like wind and rain
The Earth must breathe through his skin
And cry from his eyes
Because he smells like his Mother
Natural
Sweet and pure
Yet promising of thunder

He feels like Autumn as well
Like the departure of Summer
And the proximity of Winter
Radiating with the warmth that remains
Of sun that once kissed his flesh
Seducing the cold
A yearner for his Autumn
Not Summer nor Winter
But Autumn with his enigma
Textured with tales of fortitude
And hope

Everything is Autumn about him
And maybe that is why I keep falling
Like a leaf constantly caught
In his season

Empty Words

And she is eating their words on an empty stomach, glorifying the taste out of desperation, but she knows, oh she knows. That an empty stomach accepts anything edible, and that the satisfaction she feels is nothing special. Just a space filler. A mind fucker. She knows, oh she knows there is better. But she has never known patience when it came to hunger.

Finite

Let us not love
But be

Let us not be infinite
But feel infinity
Feel flames feel flowers
Burn these hours
Like time is a lie

Feel flowers feel flames
Bring light to these days
Like the sun is powerless

Let us not love
Let us be
The flame and its fierceness
The flower and its fluidity

Let us blaze and bloom

And crumble when we must

Dear 2017

I loved you the first day you came into my life. I thought you would be good to me. So I loved you. But as always, I expected a little too much and you only ended up disappointing me. Now you want to leave. I begged you to leave so many times, but now that you’re leaving, I feel uneasy. I don’t know why it’s bothering me, for you’re one of the worst things that have ever happened to me. I guess maybe I’m scared. I’m scared you’re not being truthful. I’m afraid you’ll cling onto my hair, climb up to my head and dig your fangs into my scalp so that I’ll never be able to shake you off. I’m afraid that although I’ll no longer be writing your name, I’ll still be screaming it in the middle of the night. I’m scared you won’t truly leave. I need you to leave me so that I can find sanity. I want to feel sane again. I need to. I need to feel again. 

Linger Longer

There are things you need to know about me. Like how I linger on things. Not the regular type of lingering, but the absurd type. They make me do it. They tell me it’s unfair to let things pass my eyes without entering my mind, cruel to let sound beat unheard, smell unnoticed. They tell me to feed my mind with my senses so that I can feel my surroundings inside me. They tell me the exterior deserves a spot in my interior, and now I’m an architect drawing everything I witness on the walls of my brain, so that I can linger just a little longer. They say it’s always healthy to linger a little longer, but now my drawings are overlapping, and although they’re weightless I can feel them consuming me. There are things you need to know about me. Like how I linger on things excessively, and how my mind is so hefty, I don’t think I’ll ever carry anything as heavy in my entire existence.

RIP

A girl I once knew passed away not very long ago. She was fighting a battle for a really long time, until her limbs eventually gave up. I mourned her so much. I think I still do, but not as often, not as much as I should. She made me feel whole and worthy. She made me feel alive. And now that she’s gone I hear her calling for me in my sleep every night, only to wake up to her death every day. I haven’t gone to visit her in a while. It’s not that I’ve forgotten her, I just don’t want to remember what it was like with her here. And I don’t want to cry anymore. People keep telling me to not cry over someone that is gone. But I miss her, like nobody could ever understand, and I would trade anything to see her staring back at me through the mirror just one last time.

Fall

Fall
I’m fall
The fall
I’m falling
The falling
A falling
Falling
Fall

Haunted House

Father my friend says our house looks haunted
She likes the way it hisses in the dark
With its olive green skin loud

And the little rusty squeaky gate
She likes that too

She doesn’t know about that scorching day
You triggered my fists into the wall beside it
She doesn’t know my blood seeped into that brick
She doesn’t see the blood that drips from the eaves
Our blood mixed with anger and dust
She doesn’t see the way our house is bleeding father

Our house is bleeding father
While you’re busy restarting the wifi router
Our house is bleeding

Tell me what the use is of mending doors
When we are imprisoned by walls
We cannot escape

Father my friend says our house looks haunted
But she doesn’t know of the ghosts we adopted
After we exhausted ourselves of silence
She doesn’t know they sleep in our beds
And feed off our flesh

She doesn’t see us bleeding father
And I don’t think you do either

Analogy

I was going through my poetry and I came across a poem I wrote quite a while ago. I hated it, the way it sat on the page, too comfortable, too proud. The way it spoke to me, all a little too carefully, like I was glass that broke at the touch. But there was one line that I absolutely loved. It held truth, a genuineness the other lines lacked. It was as if the entire poem was encapsulated in those few words, and maybe that’s why they felt so heavy on my tongue as I read them aloud. That line was impeccable, so I couldn’t discard the poem, although I hated it. I couldn’t let go, the same way I still can’t let you go.