Indie Author

Finding & Creating Beauty in Unlikely Places

Month: February 2017

Ride

For the girl whose given name means danger, speed, go. I hope you know you’re worth SO much more than that. 

My given name
is a prophesy
I wonder if when
my mother first
held me if she
could feel the
searching
already stirring like
the hum of engines
high speed down
Route 66
desert winds
choking gravity and
blurring the peripherals

I wonder if she knew I’d
forever be running?

These goddesses give us
celestial aliases our toes
trace through cyber forests
where wolves craft more
clever disguises they are
the Huntsmen
shapeshifted into Father’s
long-forgotten scent

They
plunge axes into
unblemished trunks
we bleed sweet as maple
swelling in all those
arterial holes meant
to be paternal

I still played with Barbies
the first time I was cuffed
to a bed
You beat me til my bladder
burst like the ecstasy I’ve
yet to own from any man’s
touch

Now
I mix pink barrettes
with spiked collars
and chains but if the
grease marks from all
those soiled thumbs that
grow harder with each
spit-soaked plum
could scrub off maybe
I’d be tender enough
not to need these serrated
tips tracing scars from
nipple clips see I can

Break just as well
from the force of my
own bitter disappointment
Love
has not come in any of the
shades those stories
promised me
no gifts of rubies or jade
afterwards just the tiptoe
to that
other toilet
my belly a soft Voodoo cushion
for the Crone with pad, paper, &
spider plant to fashion pins in

as I fold further back
until seeing beyond myself
is an astral projection
the love of a man
as foreign and as longed for
as those neolithic cave dwellers
who never saw the sun
but coveted jellyfish light

despite the sting I still awaken
to the Red Room
to axes and selfies I tether to
chafed ankle bones
along the floor of this vacant sea

I wonder why the boy with the
ocean gray soul was the only one
who’s ever been delicate with me
the only one who ever saw me
yet could not want me

Bleach & Bristle won’t scrub
out Blemishes of mistakes I’ve made

I wonder if
when my mother first held me
blood-soaked placenta splattered
delicate as if my innards read like
Tarot
were my eyes pooled reflections of
the gravel laden highway she’d
already known?

Or did she fashion
my name
from an intuition
arms & heart too pillow-soft
to be a father’s
An inhale too hypocritical
to be a prayer?

Self-Medicating

Sometimes
I pen these lines
to keep my fingers free
of Smartphone keys

I’m always the one
to reach for you first
it seems
I’m bad at taking hints

though your silence reads
like neon strobe light
signs in rain

this metamorphosis
I’ve made
tear-soiled
castaway
outgrown comfort object
cast into the back of the
closet
Maybe useless
Maybe an embarrassment
Maybe too sentimental to
throw away

Just
tell me
someone
is wiping your tears with
their tongue
someone is soothing
you with maternal hymns
trading nightmares for sage
is there for those 2am texts
I still check for

It’s true
I remain your
guardian angel on
the back burner
hoping your back has bent
to fit the shape of feathers

Tell me
you’ve drifted into a
breeze true enough
to carry you
Tell me something real

Something you’re Afraid to

Anything True

give me –Something– to hold onto

Free me of this Addict’s lie
that pain is the only sure thing
I have left of you

I’m bad at taking hints
and Time’s
falling slack on this whole healing
all wounds instead she’s compounding
how much I fucking miss you

at least
I’m running out of ways to say it
hoping that means I’m closer to
accepting it
though I don’t feel like I am

How can I be?
How do you force your soul
to stop loving someone
or needing to be needed
once you’ve been on the
other side of that altar?

Do you know I still can’t
listen to that Jaymes Young
song?
You’re still the first person I
give to God in the morning
ask Him to watch over you
while you sleep

Tell me that
— Once–
It was Real
For now
that’s all I need.

Resolve

I’ve been trying to
force myself to be
okay

as if I can
rearrange my
spiritual insides
through sheer will

as if filling my
days with endless
tasks tasked to
prove I deserve to
exist can somehow
make me worthy of
what can only be
construed as gifts

meanwhile

my brave smiles
feel like frauds
I cry from exhaustion
on the drive home
feel unworthy of
thank you’s
ask constant forgiveness
when I pray
Most of all I feel
Guilty

How can I be
sheltered
in such a calm
sea of blessings
yet
acknowledge this
broken limb I
keep trying to
kick with

It’s like maybe
if I stopped trying
to force myself to
be happy
I could stop
hating the truth
that I’m not yet
healed

If I
stop tugging on stitches
mending
my heart could
beat free of this
antiseptic sting

Maybe if I
can just accept that
I loved someone
enough to upend my
spiritual insides
and I don’t want to
reinvent again

Because hope dies
last
and I’m still standing
with scalpel in hand ready
to donate heart, arms, voice,
this pen, sleepless nights,
tear-stained streets, yoga mat
cries and heavenward pleas

Maybe if I can
forgive myself for
mistakes
I fear I must have made

Then I’ll make space
for redemption to
enter in

It’s true
God heals us when we’re
broken
It’s equally true
I have to let Him

Rupi Kaur-Inspired Thoughts

I wonder
why it is
that I don’t afford others
the same capacity for love
that I possess

why I constantly
doubt who truly
holds me as
irreplaceable as
I do them

How arrogant of me!

Am I the only one who
lives like this?
constantly calculating
heart rhythms
like profit percentages

I
who with my
hypocrite tongue
profess that true love
comes with no strings
attached yet I

can’t stop trying
to earn it
can’t stop wondering
which flaw will
unravel devotional threads
leave me
open wound
abandonable

I
suffocate in
red tissue suspicions
that my expendability
renders heart temple
homes for me
as wind changeable
as forest fire
or dandelion seeds
I am the reed
who bends to mask
the fact that she is
broken

blinded to what she’s
spirit known for lifetimes
her brothers and sisters
bending with her
all along a breeze-
battered sea

the Irony
is bittersweet
in reality this
not so temporary
insanity
has
nothing to do
with any of them
and everything
to do with
what’s wrong
in me.

so why is it
that even when I
gaze through unclouded
lenses
fresh scrubbed
redemption cleansed
identity
I can be loved loudly
by God himself
and still be destroyed
quietly
by my doubt
by inner frailty
by your earthly
silence.

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