….bellies and hearts
One minute I am numb … and the next minute .. I am In tears .. I miss my mom , I don’t think I could live without her .. I forgive all the bruises she’s ever done on my heart … because she is my mother .. sacred and home , belly and I am tenant … I never wipe my feet and I climb into her heart and I stay even though it walls beat against me .. for if love is not pain … if family is not a tree .. I am always it’s roots … even when I refuse to water … it ..
I have swallowed men whole and gave them back their body .. but not their bones ..
I have licked the skin off their kneecaps and watch them beg for mercy
I became a mercenary and martyr
… and a pleader and a beggar
collecting centuries of lost men looking for shelter inside of my thighs and comfort ..
says they could grant me gifts of a swollen belly …
trap me with poison and lace my tongue with lies , in my thighs
they tall tales of me
say I am siren eyed …
Man eater … I didnt start eating men until I watched they sharp their hands like forks …
trace side walks in the night looking for lunch and dinner .. and snack …
like they ain’t know where their next meal be .. like they kill for a taste of it ..
men who tongues form into knives and pack and carry inside they jeans ... body bags and massacre
man eater …
We walk around with cut edges
I walk around like I am either on the edges of death .. or as if I am waiting for it to catch me when it falls ..
and wishing it come with a cough … and silence .. I wonder if this has to do with unkissed knees and knowing to early … how to put on bandaids yourself .. … from watching the passage between children and on swings and scrapped knees that get kissed and gentle hands placing it so perfectly .. this is how we learned to always fix ourselves through observation and I wonder if this is why I loved science … and equations .. and puzzles ..
why I wanted to a doctor . I cut my finger with scrissors … while cutting paper .. and there’s was so much blood so much blood .. and I cried and held in every wind pipe and I rain to the sink and rinsed and I attempted to glue my skin shut … as to not become such a trouble ….it’s sits a loom … I stare often .. at its shape ..
The stories our body carry
When there is war … the girl loses …
I tell them how her body will become a bargain to men and martyr to women and warning …
To children …
I will tell them how men sit a tables and compare guns … and the measurement of its damage …
Use blood … like currency ..
A women’s body will become his grenade and he will leave her belly up and scoped out
Like a trophy .. like a prize ..
I tell them how at the hands of war .. their are always manly …..
I tell them how after every war .. their are sunken eyed women …
Men who … carry on …. With stories
Women who ( bodies ) carry on like maps … …
Children who carry on like history books …Surviving.
Give me your ghoul and your bones … and haunt me anyway …
give me your ghost and let me borrow your shadows
i Will love you even if we turn to graves and stones …
dust and ashes …
i will wait for you in purgatory .. while I withstand gehanna …
i will love you liked Adam loves Eve
and we will become naked … knowing what it looks like to love to the skin and bones ..
and will you regret .. giving me your rib … ? … after all we become is death .. and trees .. as we wait ….
*I still hope some days we grow into each other and become like trees .
Love yours , elphaba
Why do we always let others turn ourselves into the worse version of ourselves to fit their own prophecy ..
……you don’t have to give them scripture…
You don’t have to provide them verse ….
You don’t have to be evil … you can be good …
Don’t you belive …. You were always better than them ……. Who told you were not worthy … you would always be …. A criminal …
Building bars and sentences .. for yourself
Look at you stepping inside orange jumpsuits
It’s become fluid … like dance ….
It ain’t nothing to you anymore … sin …
Look at you , becoming worse and far from better …
I know that everything that glitters is not always gold … now
I miss you , Glinda good ….. i belive I could be good .. but I am better …. With my feet under houses …you don’t understand to defy gravity .. would to defy physics and fate … and maybe some of us were born villains to make heroes .
I miss you Glinda … I … do .. I could be good … if you defy us gravity .
Making gods out dust
I like my favorite food , like my favorite humans , I will consume over and again , addict to euphoria , idolizing the flavor , I will share it joys with everyone , but never a piece from my plate … over time It will disappoint me and their is no joy in consuming so much of something only to be let down … I have made a god out of peach O’s and watched it humble me … I have made thrones out of dirt and flesh … and only to be disappointed their is no altar fitting for humans and fleeting circumstances , that show me too much of how they are flesh and dirt , their is no gold in their bones , they will weather like iron in the means of storms .. rust showing all character and nothing becoming …
My body becomes a jungle gym
You climb on me
Knead yourself into
I am placid and jello
The kitchen calls me
My mouth leaves itself open like a fly trap
I wonder if this is what being underground feels like… or sitting on a pedastal and watching mortals .. chose a god … and finding their is no heaven in between legs .. after the light goes out , we are all shadows and gaping mouths .. making gods out of dust ..
Baby , little baby .
Would you even love me , if we created something beautiful and it never saw the light . Would you hold my body or caste me aside , would we turn into blameless faceless and hands full of acusations and no room to bury grief …
Spend evenings laying on coffins and waiting for this to end .. you don’t have to stay anymore … you can run …. And I still hold the bellly and the body … You can deny your body was ever a home … I have no choice to still leave the shutters open and hold the windows and the heartbeat … the faint jolts of laughter …. There was someone here … in me .. standing in mirrors and turning to the side … place hand.. hides shame .. and regret .. I know it all …. Lost and found… I tell her it is not your fault .. I tell her she may try again … and I tell her she will be a a good mother ….
Because on the days when she is longing for baby feet , she will say it’s her fault in the middle of the night when he doesn’t hold her or stay …
When she finds herself craving … to become more than a woman … she must know she can try again …
When she looks at her hands at the doctors with good news … she will doubt .. if she will be good .. she will need to know she is still a mother if she loses it and she will be a good mother …
And when I sit next to her I ask in Spanish … if she would like a hug … I stop in the middle of speaking … and I get nervous I want it to be translated perfectly .. I know how much words mean … I ask him to ask if she consents to a hug … I hug … I speak my Spanish .. it’s broken … it’s grief …. And I become professional .. in the moments … that pull me way to deep into personal … I tell her te amo … becaUse she must know she is loved …
She is loved
She is loved
She is loved
She is still a mother
Even when her body cannot hold a host .
I hate all the versions of me , I was a beggar
Two hands out looking for a sixpence of affection..
i hate all the versions of me that didn’t know better , but should of had known better
I hate all the versions that ever told a man she needed them … as if she didn’t learn how to walk on water … as if she doesn’t have a god , as if she is not a god or scripture .
as if she is not an ancestor … as if shes not holding wisdom in her veins … like lines crossed around her hand ..
as if body cannot create life and take it back and rebuke … it’s conjuring .
i hate all the versions of me , that become a damaging ecosystem to those who tried to grow inside me
I hate all the versions of me that learned to be breathe in carbon dioxide . That when it got time to breathe in oxygen I didn’t know how to come up for air .
i hate all the versions of me that didn’t recognize I am crown and Nubian . for everytime I held a mirror againist shadows and hated my relfection .
I hate all the versions of me , that insecurity clingers for me like a cloak , a stain , I couldn’t wash .. do You know not your worth ?
i detest the growth process . … but I have adored it’s healing … for girlhood is the constant ripping of thighs and bleeding , becoming male fantasy .. and becoming standard beauty , fidgeting with scale and worth .. womanhood is bleeding and knowing body ,
love comes in the shape of a woman .. is taking lessons and not letting the damage be lineage …
i will not leave behind a body that Carries stories of women who did not ever learn their lesson …
My notes app is just a collection of words , I don’t have the guts to ever say and a memory list of all the times , I have to remember to do human things .
My notes app , holds all my punches that I never throw .
My notes apps reek of honesty , I an no immortal here …
I cannot pretend to be goddess and heaven ..
I shed god here , you will find no religion here
I am not Enity to be worship
But I can assure you ,
I am an offspring of Eve
I reek of imperfection
It’s the closest I will get to being myself and finding common ground in hiding in between pages …
Of too much truth and honoring lies .. just be a pretender of vulnerability
If my notes app … were read on judgement day , I be beggar of mercy and scripture ..