This poem is based off of the Greek myth of Hyacinthus. https://www.britannica.com/topic/Hyacinthus 

At least it was dry. 
At least you could peel off the heat like a second skin
and heal yourself in blurry, blue waters. 

But the humidity clings. 

It clings like a parasite and oozes like an infection.
Humidity holds its hot breath and never comes up for air. 
 

Everyone has different personality traits that are specific to them. Pick one personality trait and personify it. What would courage act like? What would desperation say? Try to make these attributes come to life. 
 

Ⅰ.      My mother wonders why I don’t like watermelon. Why I don’t like red lips smacking, spitting out the seed and sucking down to the rind. They are too watery for me. I want something substantial. Something real. Something I can leap to and grasp. I don’t care for a melon I can rip apart with my bare hands. She should feed me poetry instead. Lyrical longing, paper pans, red ripe suns flavored with salt from the Atlantic. I would gobble it down and beg for more. 

Ⅱ.     My siblings always seem feather light. If you try to keep them grounded they just float away. They act like the world exists for them. My brother and sister are dancing after dark. They are fireflies kept in jars that bang against the walls until they inevitably escape. If I were to write about them, the words would probably shake, shout, bicker and laugh themselves right off the page. 

Ⅲ.     I’ve always liked to skip. Since my birth I’ve been skipping: 
         crying 

My hands are adorned 
by gloves constructed 
from the warmth of life itself.  

The California Sun 
of asphalt mirages 
beating down and 
bronzing skin and 
sucking the earth dry. 

The rage 
of generations
of injustice 
changing the heart 
into a seed 
that is slowly cracking. 
Letting rage 
spew out 
like lava. 

The racing 
from the crystal snow
to the piping hot 
brown cocoa
splashing slowly down the throat 
and brightening up the soul. 

The almighty, 
Satan scorching, 
fires from hell. 
Turning bodies 
into wax museums 
of dripping, faceless figures. 

The red cheeked, 
shy smile, 
averted eyes blush. 
From the next door neighbor 
peeking out their door. 

My gloves are woven from the threads of the world

hours of happiness 
and snapshots of suffering. 

I have learned what it means to be lonely. 

Staring at my phone screen,
letters all in blue, 
silently begging for a reply. 

Seeing a group of Shiny Happy People 
dancing through the streets while 
my own feet become h                    h
                                      e                       e
                                        a                       a
                                           v        and           v
                                              i                           i
                                                e                          e
                                                    r                          r

To have a full stomach and empty plate, 
but still hungering for something more. 

(Warning the story gets a lttle dark and has a sensative topic. I hope I portrayed it well and respectably)

       The wind whips my hair into my face. “Ptew, ack.” I pull my hair out of my mouth and walk closer to the statue. Good ol’ Lady Liberty. I wonder if she feels guilty now. For all the people she deceived. Her torch is supposed to be used to light the way for immigrants, not set them on fire. As problematic as she might be, I still enjoy visiting the spot. It’s so interesting to see the history of the statue. The plaques and the symbolism in every little detail. Our forefathers( or forepeople as I like to say) placed their hopes, ideals and dreams for the future in this woman. They chose her to be their shining knight in armour. 

(this is bunch of word barf that I came up with but i wanted to post something:) 



We make small talk and strange conversation 
in the glow of the subway station. 

Another man quietly chats with his wife,
except she's dead. 
And he's lying on the grimy subway floor. 

Smoke twists in long, lazy lines from the man in the black coat. 
Except he dissapeared. 
Just a hazy trail ambling toward the exit. 

And then there's the regular Bonnie and Clyde, making their great escape.
Except it's just me. 
Bonnie. 
Clyde should hear the sirens soon. 
Back in our hotel room. 
 

When did 
my greedy paws 
start feeding my brother and sister? 

When did 
my elders fables 
revamp from boring to brilliant? 

When did 
I stop wailing to the world 
and start muting my tears in the bathroom?

When did 
clowning with boys 
turn into warnings about their evil ways? 

And when did I realize that time on the bus when the boy bullied my braids ran deeper and darker like the glow of my skin? 

When did I start growing up? 
 

So this is your life now? 

Like a pill? Hard to take and even harder to swallow? 

Sharp like a blade and quick to draw blood? 

Blood red like your harsh lipstick that burns in the light? 

With a clipped laugh, fake as plastic.