Mar 18

prove me wrong


i pray that you prove me wrong. 

i hate being wrong. 

but what you have,

behind your metallic smile,

is stronger than my impulses to 

always be proven correct. 

please prove me wrong. 

i do trust you, believe me, i do,

but it’s his soul that beat you black and blue.... darling,

he gave you that bruise upon your arm, 

and you let him bandage the marks 

with a piece of scotch tape so 

please my love,  know that it is not you, but it is him that i do not trust. And if i’m standing by you, dressed in that dove colored fabric as you approach him with tears on your plush cheeks, i will smile, as you proved me wrong. I pray that you prove me wrong. 
Mar 09

Love Sucker

 A home for me is any place far
from your grasping hands and lava lips,
coercing my mind into compliance.
Telling my body to submit to your
disguised poison
and venom slipping
through my outstretched neck
and hiding in my veins until I
am too far gone to
know it still
lingers 
 
Feb 21

The Blueprint of Social Justice


What is a blueprint, exactly? Is it a tinted piece of vellum, or a map laying out the steps to take in order to be successful? Is it formulas and a handful of nuts and bolts, or is it simply a visualized Candyland board with no shortcuts and no winning rainbow square at King Kandy’s castle?

Most people will happily live their lives without ever thinking about the answers to these questions. I am not one of those people. I am one of the people who will turn these questions every which way in my head and still struggle to come up with a definitive answer.

I do not think I will ever be able to stand in front of the masses and say with confidence, ‘Social justice is...’, or, ‘The blueprint of social justice is…’ Although I may never be able to answer that question with a concrete answer, I can answer it with what I do know. What I am unequivocally sure of is that the blueprint to social justice is subjective.
Feb 09

Dell, Dell.


words fall from her tongue and 
shatter against the tattered wood floor
beside her feet. she spreads her
warmth across a sea of children and
makes each of
them understand the word ‘home’
even if they can’t speak a single word yet. 

her voice melts the cement
walls built around them;
their small hearts beating to
the rhythm of her strumming fingers. 

each pluck of the melody
echoes around the darkest corners of her room as she
hides her secrets beneath the floorboards.
shadows caress the fresh
paint around her windows and
demand parts of her soul, and
every time she gives another fraction
away, splintering herself so
that even the greatest of evils can
have a ray of light to carry with them.
Her soul then becomes empty, until a
figure made of pure light teeters slowly
into her lap, unbalanced and unabashed
Jan 28

January 28, 2004

her fingers crawl up her legs and along her torso until she reaches the base of her neck, her hands wrapping around the hair that grows there, binding it with a black tie. her eyes are soft and kind while she speaks to me, telling me anything i want to hear. She’s never changed. Never woken up and decided to put on a mask for popularity— she’s never needed to. She’s never needed to be anything but herself for people to love her. Most things that look beautiful hurt to hold. Like a rose with thorns, like snowfall with frostbite. But she has never hurt me, and i have held her eternally. I have wrapped my soul around her so tightly that no one can tell the difference between our beings. I have held her so close that i am lost without her, but somehow when i stare down at the ring on my finger i know that she is nothing more than an arms length away; not ever truly distanced. Not when she lives so strongly in my heart.
 
Jan 24

identity

Jan 24

Pride

Jan 08

if i die


take a sip of my blood,

and feel my tears on your tongue. 

if i die, cut my heart out and 

translate it like the rosetta stone. 

decipher the scriptures on my bones. 

take me to where you feel most calm,

and extend your spine like an arm,

pick me up from where i lay, 

breathe me for one more day. 

it is not the task but the expectation

that breeds my faulty hesitation. 

and god only knows where i am,

forgotten in a lonely land. 

a pen in my hands is as dangerous 

as a gun in yours, scratching initials 

into hotel floors.

splinters under my fingernails

remind me of all the times i failed.

and if my voice is stolen,

lay me to rest, the way i’ve chosen.
Jan 08

Lynne


her eyes hold the secrets of children,

her smile speaks their truth, 

her life lies between the fine lines 

of the pages, and her heart 

sings the songs of the forgotten ones. 

she can fold you up small

and sit you on her lap, 

making you a home underneath the 

wooden floorboards of her domain. 

She can make the coldest of nights feel warm with one laugh, and she can share with you the knowledge of a thousand generations with just one embrace. 
 
Jan 08

May

she walks with the poise of 

every woman who came before her—

her energy bounces off of the walls around her 

and strikes every living thing with 

a sense of belonging. 

She speaks in such a way,

that makes the words have a new meaning,

like they were crafted especially to come from her voice. her mind. 

oh, her mind. 

A beautiful concoction of love and loyalty. 

And once she sees your soul— embraces you— nothing with stop her from keeping you safe in the chambers of her heart.
 

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