unbelievable things

words don’t stick 

I  threaten

with forgetfulness//

a personalized

rumor///

they laugh

***

will the gate lock?

I am tired 

of being ripe

a morsel

shoulders stiff 

with the crown of all who whispered crucifixion

I am a willing participant

the sadness 

doesn’t bother me, it’s happiness 

a formless

somewhere 

between a smile and a salted rim

snarl

I am taking time, to heal.

Birds don’t bother me anymore.

A crow comes at the same time every morning, 

and it’s slowly become part of this healing. 

It caws and I yawn.

I wait for it, 

much like I wait for my stomach to begin churning and talking before I get out of bed each morning. 

I’m usually alone by the time I get up. 

My husband is working hard to keep us living in the luxury of our 450 square feet in the middle of Los Angeles.

Meanwhile, I am contemplating, at age 39, if I should go back to school or not?

It’s an interesting time, the day to day.

This time alone, hurts.

I am in the company of myself, 

and all the dialogue that had been drowned out with busy office work is on the surface and she’s a bully.

I didn’t realize how loud her hate was.

How loud she tries to convince me that my past is a petrified forest. 

That I’m bound at the feet.

That I want the easy way out because it has been such a tragic existence.

Please hear me out.

I mean, these voices, they’re just voices. 

And as pathetic as this all may sound, it is real, and it is nails to a cross, fingers in the eye-sockets. 

Sometimes I sit in my filth all day, remind myself to drink water, but usually, I let myself starve. 

I enjoy the depletion, feels Holy, romantic and tragic.

I watch the hours go by and remind myself of my age in 3-hour increments.

“You are 39, and in 100 days you will be 40.”

Much has happened, and yet, you still comb your hair as if you are trying to shake off his scent. 

You still smile and cry and eat as if the food you stuff in your mouth will somehow fill the void he left. 

You are a child always because you are trying to reclaim yourself year by year, day by day, decade by decade.

You scrape the last bit of everything on your plate as if you are scraping every last bit of yourself.

It’s all very obvious and very sad and it’s how I heal while the crow caws at my window.

It’s how I heal as I listen to my stomach begin to churn and talk before I get out of bed each morning. 

dressed

his love is open heart surgery

no permission

reacquainted, 

joined at the hip

twins with different mothers

we are wife, husband, lovers

ego glitching

distortion of proportion

fears are only inches high

but I willingly drown

his love is open heart surgery

no permission,

genuine

a surgeon, 

who is working

on watching me

stitch these wounds

shut

don’t let the fuckers get you down

I am 39 days unemployed, and on this day, 

August 8th—I finally got an interview at a legit place. 

But as soon as the goodness invades, I begin the suffering and pain.

I am stuck inside this vein, I cannot make it go away.

I can, but choose to stab instead, happy always has an end.

I realize the past is gone, but lives so vividly inside my throat. 

It urges more than smiling does.

It counts the minutes it is gone. 

love in the age of measles

It’s just a little bit of skin, 

nothing you can toss around 

or even lick,

I am all stature,

small feet,

you’ll have to bend down 

to get to me.

I smell of rotten peach, 

incense, 

majesty,

without a throne 

who am I to preach?

I don’t eat meat, 

but climb on top

I twist around,

and count my calories,

carry my passport 

and speak good english 

because

i’d only return back to my country

with a plane ticket bought 

drunkenly with my husband next to me

reminding me 

how he’d love to sleep

under the same stars

i’d look at

with my child myopic eyes

how he’d love to fuck me near

an active crater

and how nowhere is safe

unless

it’s on each others chests

and nothing is forever

we both know

that bittersweet romanticizing is the only way

we can make

anything last 

consistently nourished

hair—

dog-eared, 

behind mine,

all is godly in the dark//

with hair, 

caught between teeth, 

or back of throat

coughed up,

I ask, 

“I’m a good girl? 

or maybe it’s a statement.

“You’re a woman, 

and you’re stunning.” he says

I cry, and survive inside your stoic.

You are the nail that drives me, 

the thorn that stays pinched,

the insignificant,

the prosaic wearied beat

of heart against mine—

you worry about it jumping out of your chest,

spilt like wine, all over me—

I dance, 

my hair, 

undone, 

unfurled, 

it is pages thrown into a fire.

it is accent

thick &

heavy 

with a place 

I’d rather burn//

I have no words,

no hair, 

caught between teeth, 

or back of throat

coughed up,

I burn loudly

a song 

before language…

it’s ok to catch feelings today

all limbs locked/in a tomb/a meditation of mediocrity/pretend/that all you are is just enough/that trying is abundance/that integrity, a farce/

pretend that red lips and long limbs are you spread across the ocean/that many want to be you/but few can ever feed from the food that is your mediocrity/I see the sun rise in your eyes/and set at your feet/you dig your toes in sand/to remind yourself/that maybe in the dark/a knife awaits/

I am glossy mouthed, so all the admiration can glide off of me/I am short stacked so that the time to read me, is abundant enough, to read twice/

I know a girl named silver dress/I know a boy named bangs a drum

I know a dead pile of bones remembered as the one who laughed in her sleep/

I wait for dreams

I wait for echoes

I wait/

and fall

apart

in meditation/pretending/that all I am/is just enough