What is the word for the feeling you get morning after you cry your eyes out?
Your body buoyant like a fluid
and puffy eyes.
What of the moments you paint your dreams with faint font,
whispering prayers through dried lipstick?
Like a mother waiting at the shore
for a soldier son in high tides.
What is the word for hiding your hurt
passing it out like a thin fart hoping no one smells it?
Learning to heal your wounds with slow Sunday mornings
and cheap black coffee.
What is the word for being young, hopeful and miles from home?
A young lass learning to become.
The thing about getting older is how you love:
like dandelion and wind
keeping each others spirit afloat.
The thing about getting older is how you breath:
like a feather settling on still sand on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
The thing about getting older is how you grow into yourself:
like the moon going through it’s phases till it’s full again.
The thing about getting older:
Is how much you become.
Lately I have been thinking about you:
your bushy eyelashes,
the depth in your spine,
how it dangles from the lips like a reminiscing tear.
I think of our hanging goodbye;
unspoken, kept inside as a hidden path that leads to the treasure that is you.
I think of our sinful nights;
halfway smoked blunts,
sluggish whispers of hopes,
dewy, lusty kisses.
On these days I wonder-
should I come running to you,
what would I find in your heart?
a whisper of my name?
a yearning for a lingering night?
I wanted you then,
and sometimes, even now
I still do.
There is a fire in me;
an ignition to a land I know not-
a myth of my own making.
There is a sojourner in the mind;
one holding back the reins of my dreams-
slowly sipping the race off my bones.
There is a battle raging in me;
boots besides my bed that are too huge for me to fill-
and a folding spirit of what was once a soldier.
There are rapid visions in my head;
of a land dripping with milk and honey-
But all I am is a small village girl
carving out a place for herself in a big city.
Do you know how hard that is?
There is a windchime at my back window,
It makes a slow song in the wind-
Sad, like the owner.
The plant next to it has a flower,
bent forward in search of light
And I am rocking myself to happiness in the living room.
It’s all too hazy,
Dimming off slowly like a dying eulogy.
Jazz is playing off my speakers;
like the will in me to see through tonight.
Everything is whirling,
And my being is threatening to disintegrate.
Do you think that maybe,
You can stop me from reeling.
Some days I feel like a flower;
lightly pinned on a fur coat
with the winds blowing both in and out
of an open warehouse where I am hanged.
On others I am a wolf;
howling to a dripping moon
spelling out dreams with wails
letter by letter.
Some days I feel like a dying candle during a hurricane;
with the water rushing in
The anticipation of drowning
sweeping me away.
On others life feels like a grave;
and there are no flowers on this side of the grave.
The procession is stuck at your home;
with you leading it
lowering your head-
mumbling supplications for your soul.
I find your prayers oscillative;
words of repentance tossed in and around grit teeth-
“forgive me, for I knew no better.”
what solace do you seek,
did you for a second think that hearts break in whispers?
Turn that other way;
say five little Hail Mary’s
leaving your cloak of self-righteousness at my feet.
You will do that for me, lover,
Photocredits: Photo of Rae of Rayerae by Kelvin Kaesa