Icicle lights on the bookcase
A fire
Quiet music
Eyelashes
Darkness
Snow

What is my favorite color

Lavendar

Night
Sofa
Hot chocolate and handmade pillows
Blankets

Let's watch a movie or something

Maybe later

Questions and answers
Answers

Echoes
Fragments
Words
Sweet nothings
Whispers

I...I think I love you

You see
That's the difference between you and me 
You think you love me
And I know I love you

Blush
A smile
Tentative and shy
A touch
A secret

Let's watch a movie

Okay

A sudden feeling of sorrow and isolation circulates

Through her head.

Pain runs through her veins,

Like a rush of adrenaline.

Her emotions make her feel like a hibiscus

In a field of roses,

Feelings of insecurity and inadequateness.

In her mind, she wanted to give up,

To stop trying to see hope in her future.

A tormented state of mind is mixed in with this mess.

But you wouldn’t let her leave.

You showed her that there was a light that could be seen in the dark.

You brought to her the fact that there were people who loved her,

Who would care if she left.

There was something you taught her about people.

Their feelings are like glass,

Anyone could break at any moment.

You have to be very gentle with the glass,

For it will break if you aren't.

cracked girl, 
tell me your secrets, 
how you spill your nourishing water
through the splits
helping people grow,
but never keeping enough for yourself. 

forced girl, 
tell me your secrets,
how you shoved 
and filled in all the empty places with gold
so that they wouldn't see 
all the nothing that haunted you when you breathed. 

hair girl, 
tell me your secrets
how you grew to hate
the kinks that swirled from your scalp,
blooming when given water and warmth, 
that they were the symbols
of everything that was different. 

deep girl, 
tell me your secrets,
how you see  
the beauty in yourself in picture after picture, 
not minding how others snicker, 
and say that you are vain.

full girl, 
tell me your secrets,
how your curves
roll like the hills our ancestors used to roam,
flowers blooming at the splits,

In January of 1963, eight clergymen published an open letter to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. This letter warned against King’s demonstrations of civil disobedience. The clergymen called on him to preserve the peace of Birmingham. King received this letter while in prison for leading a parade without a permit. It was no parade that King was marching in, but rather a display advocating for human rights. Thus, “A Letter from Birmingham City Jail” was born. Composed on April 16, 1963, in the margins of a newspaper, this “letter” addresses the racial injustice in Birmingham and in the United States. Now, over fifty years later, the words of King still ring true to the tragedies of today. Yet, through the many mirrors of society, we are often unable to see beneath the surface; we forget that injustice manifests in many forms. The lynching of a black man, the raping of a woman: they both provide vivid proof that our society still clings to power and privilege.

Winter is a blanket of snow
Spread across the land
The top of the mountains
Are painted white
And a crystal snowflake
falls onto my hand

Winter is huddling by a fire
The flames burning brighter and brighter
as they are fanned

Winter is playing out in the snow
and coming inside to drink some hot cocoa
And falling asleep
huddled under the covers
Winter is being with one another

Editor's Note: This poem was recommended as a Daily Read by Graceful. If you would like to suggest Daily Reads, just message Reid!
 

New York
is a heartbeat;
my heartbeat,
as the electric subway flies
down the tracks
like a silver strike
of lightning.

I have a yellow strand of 
crepe paper
wrapped around my neck, 
a string of sunshine fighting
the glow of Times Square around my shoulders,
free souvenir of
SpongeBob the musical,
a giddy throwback to
age 7,
when I lived in a city.

I never lived in New York,
only Boston,
with its maze of streets,
the corner store walking distance,
ice cream bars in the sticky
heat of summer.
New York is more methodical
than this.

Methodical,
but sleepless,
we eat pasta across from the hotel
minutes before midnight,
I don't understand the language
the patrons at the table
behind us speak,
but it's an odd sense
of peace to not be alone in the restaurant. 

The next morning,