Shade Two

They say bitterness eats your Life.
I say it gives me a breath. It lets me say thank you, bitch, next.
I'm moving along. Sure, I'll pause to look behind, why? Because I'm realizing I never should have settled. I never should have replied.
I see my past mistakes. Fuck, I'm taking my flaws with grace.
This bitterness, this anger, this regret, it's keeping me awake. It's pushing me forward to another level.
Do they see how I surround myself in this space?
This is my bitter home. This is my better home.
This is where I rise and where you hit your sorry ass face.
Yes, I'm bitter. Yes, I'm angry.
I'd rather feel that envy that let anyone else stab me.

Shade One

A life so toxic, breathing is painful.
Desires to escape replaced with those to adapt, to survive.
The skin has become leather.
Impenetrable & rich.
A luxury to some, a curse to others.
Inner screams of anguish hidden by playful makeup and sly smiles.
They can't hear them if they're laughing.
Be the clown.

A Free Ride

Spinning in place.
That's how it feels, except after the movement ends, the brain continues to turn. 
360‎°. Faster, faster, faster.
Slow. Enough to catch a breath then again. Fast.
There isn't an image in focus. That's why it's worse.
All these sounds and objects being processed at once. 
Differentiate, please. 
The blurs become hideous visions akin to nightmares. 
Perhaps it is the centripetal force, but there is a new breath on my neck.
Gentle prickles from imaginary places.
Is this real? Yes. All the spins.
+the nightmares
Spin more. 

My Little Dreams

I'm folding up my little dreams

Within my heart to-night,

And praying I may soon forget

The torture of their sight

For Time's deft fingers scroll my brow

With fell relenteless art-

I'm folding up my little dreams

To-night, within my heart!

   -Georgia Douglas Johnson 

A Rainbow

My lips had grown accustomed to Nothing. Nothing could be rough, forceful, unsatisfying, crisp, abrupt, inconsistent.
My lips knew Absence. For months Absence had gifted impulsivity and quick release.
See, a body and mind can learn to survive.
Easily.
Mine coped. It survived.
I had Nothing and Absence.
Then something beautiful happened.
My lips were gifted Love.
Love was warm. Love was perfectly synchronized to match my movements.
Love brought gifts of tears and butterflies. Love embraced me with unwavering emotion and positivity.
Love was short.
See, at that precise moment, I was alive again.
I was reminded why I was unhappy with Nothing and Absence and it all happened because of a kiss.

The Reality of Loss

It was easy to hold your hand.
Even during the storm, after hesitation, it was easy to hold on.
A brief flicker of doubt followed quickly by understanding and love.

It was easy to love you.
Each day my heart grew fonder of the kind, nurturing, patient, whimisical person you are.
While the winds grew stronger and the rain became shards of glass, I held on.
While the light of my future dimmed, I found solace in the shine of your smile.

It was easy to stay.
Losing friends and relatives hurt. The blood loss wanned on me.
Even then I held strong knowing losing you would be total decapitation.
Blood may be crimson but nothing is as sweet as the tender embrace that was gifted to me each night.

In the end, it was always easy.

Please come late

Please come late.
so that I have almost given you up
and have started glancing around the room,
thinking everyone is you.
Please don't come
until I have started missing you,
thinking I will never see you again,
praying you are lost.
Come too late for me not to notice.
Make me suffer,
wondering what you are doing
on the other side of town,
still in your dressing gown.
make me beg for mercy
when you pick up a magazine.

Are you looking in your mirror,
suddenly remembering me?
I'm on my second coffee by now,
eating the little bits of sugar in my cup.
Haven't you even set out yet?
I decide I don't want to see you after all.
I don't really like you.
I'd rather be on my own.
I know it is all over between us,
but I go on sitting here,
reading a newspaper,
not understanding a word.
If you came in now, I wouldn't recognize you.
Don't come anywhere near me
until I have gone slightly mad for love of you.

-Hugo Williams

tonight I'm on fire

It's restlessness. An itch that forgets for a few seconds then returns with more friends.
It's heat. Feeling unable to feel any comfort from a cold pillow, just warmth, another seat by a burning wood fire.
It's loud. Every turn of your head brings a crashing of hair cascading around your ears.
It's the lack of peace. Fingers spasming for a grip of a forlorn lover.
It's an empty pit. Endless wandering.
It's one night of several, stretched on until the next.
It's being awake until a beautiful memory plants its kiss of dreams.

A blind fury

Call it semi-sonic.

Just know this, it begins with a bang.

It's a catastrophic thought. Disastrous. Horrifying.

A disarray. Commencing with one ending, ending? There's infinity.

More than a waste of time, more than lost energy, more than bruises, more than tears.

It is locked in the past, terrified of the present, and weary of the future.

It's a realization of pure resentment.

All drawings, all of THEM, lead back to one simple sentence:

      What's already dead should be left in the dirt.

Leaves&Twigs

Today I am a tree.
I will stretch my branches into distant horizons.
My roots will know no bounds. I will remain firm. I will shake but I shall not move.
I will accept the turbulence around me, learning that growth comes in harshness and grace.
I will feel the daylight as Mother's blessing. It will warm my skin. It will heal me.
Today, I am a tree.

The Dictator

His furrows grow more distinct.
Each line etched on his forehead has a different complaint.
They all begin with too.
Too loud. Too cramped. Too hot. Too cold. Too expensive.

This day is his day, just like all the rest.
He will act accordingly. Accordingly to his wants.
Do not protest. He will win.

His voice is deep.
After years of inhaling toxins, he has learned to shout over the rest.
He must be heard.

He is right. All others are unaware of their ignorance.
This displeases him.
How could they not know? How could they ask such ludicrous questions?

He holds his place with a never ending scowl.
Why smile when things aren't going his way?
Insufferable? No. They just can't learn.

He sits, humming to himself.
He has survived for so long on his own he forgot those around him.
He has chosen to ignore, to dismiss what all others desire.
Keep what he likes, toss the rest.

This is the king. He has lived. He has won.

When You Toss

Laying awake isn't easy.
The stillness of Night soothes bones.
Only like this can the orchestra begin.
Listen to the music!
The snores begin the movement.
This opening allegro mocks weary eyes. Travellers into the sleep realm are disconcerted.
Then comes the freeway. From a distance, you hear

cars filled with early risers, the working class bustling to begin their long day.

Now the minuet. Such a temptation to move the feet during the social hour of the bedsheets.
Woodwind. Percussion. String. 
Each family has united to bring forth a lullaby.
There is chaos, though. Their desire to continue has been dragged on. They are begging their conductor to sleep.
The orchestra begs to end but alas, how can one sleep with such noise?

 

 

 

Fright

I sit on these hands.
Every night when I can start feeling it take over, I need to sit on these hands.
I trim these nails.
Every week I will be reminded why I keep them short. Length is dangerous.
I cover this skin.
Every day, "Long sleeves to keep them asleep."

Tedious.
I'm not cold.
I'm not energetic.
I'm not worried about appearances of minor digits.

At night it comes to change me.
I am transformed.
I become that rabid dog hoping that every scratch with tear off the mites underneath.
I become the vermin you see squirm around sewers and waste.
I become the lion, prepared to pounce on its prey.
I am tormented by what I cannot see, what lies deeper within the skin, what reminds me of each lie I told to live in my sins.
I am tormented by an itch that cannot be contained by some medicine or any ointment.
I am tormented by an insatiable desire to keep scratching until I see it.

Crimson, small, minor.
A burn. A droplet. A sting.
That which reminds me that no matter if it is in my head, it still inflicts corporeal pain.

I sit on these hands until it goes away.
I trim these nails until I cannot scratch.
I cover this skin until the pull releases.

I do this until my mind returns from Fright.

Yeast Grime

These differences break us.

Each one piling up like forgotten dirty laundry.

Each one settling, creating its own filth.

For now, we placate. Tomorrow?

Tomorrow it rises. 

Each one reacting to another, expanding.

Let it sit, it will grow.

Let us push aside what we cannot change.

Let us ignore what has been spoken.

This is how infection spreads.

The eye rolls, the held back of a tongue, the anger. 

All of them are catalysts.

These differences will break us.