_gossip.

To the girl with the glowstick smile
And the eyes deep enough to stand in. What are you so afraid for?
Why let them desecrate the altar of your walk
for the hollow prayers in between your thighs?
Just to forsake the God you’ve kept closed
from their beautiful blasphemy.
With your own sins echoing in the hallways
Of your insecurities
And the mocking tones birthed from strange lips.

I’ve forgotten your smile…

Formerly fearless woman…
Since when did you care?
And give credibility to their criticisms.
Building monuments 60 sob stories high
With your sorry’s and sigh’s
When none of it was of your fault to begin with.

You have nothing to apologize for.
When human beings think angels
Are strange aliens
And it’s only in your nature to be one. 

_an open letter for single mothers.

She’s not the same person she used to be.
Something less. But something more.
She’s a patchwork symphony
Of band-aids and bandages
Trying to hold together the fragile fragments
Quilting together her memories
In a Faberge fashion

A rose watered by stray prayers
With her roots embedded in turmoil
Working graveyard shifts
In tandem with the skeletons
She’s buried in the back of her closet
So her seed can blossom past her station

A tender touch that can nurture
A struggle into a diamond
Raging thunder, into silence
A son, into a man
A daughter, into a woman
And the cries of her children
Buzz like a crowded cathedral
In the hollow hallways of their home
Where the heart is

Labeled by her gender
By the grace in her hips
And the shape of her tits
Identified by her gentle touch
And the regal curve of her spine
Like a tower of a waving daffodil
With her chin held so high
Her crown grazes the heavens
Parting the sky like lightning
In the clenched fists of an angry god
Vandalizing egos like *snap*

She has no time to be broken.
Too strong, too tough, too tired to be broken.
Her fatigue hangs off the weary joints of her skeleton
Like paintings of a better tomorrow
Looking into a mirror to a broken yesterday.
Studying chalk traced outlines of past relationships
She hangs in her gallery of lessons and regrets.
Too many men have
Treated her eardrums like a landfill
So now there’s an abyss in her chest
Her pride won’t let a man fill
And a place in her heart
That her mind won’t let a man feel

But still she stands with her arms
Spread like magazine articles
Or the legs of that 16 year old girl
Who treats love like a rental film
It lasts less than two hours
Is best enjoyed with the lights off
And holding to it for any longer
Only means you’ll have to pay in the end.

A solemn woman
With a portrait of her battered heart
Swinging on a noose between the vaulted arches
Of her ribcage like a metronome
Counting time to the rhythm of her heartbeat
In the music box she calls her chest
With ghosts of miracles
Haunting the space behind her breasts
Visible past the stiff lipped armor
She tries to protect it with.

Weary eyelids like a horizon cradling the sunset
Between cumulus clouds and rays of sunshine
Slowly closing to the lullaby of mute songbirds
Trading lyrics to a chorus of cannon fire
Through the windows of her pupils

She has katanas hidden
Behind the ivory tombstones of her teeth
Sheathed between her cheeks
And the shimmering mask she calls a smile.
A tongue that cracks like whips
On the backs of pregnant silences
And broken sentences
That cushion the missing apologies
That sandcastle in her ears
Her speech is covered
In a thin film of sorrow
And every syllable sings a song of sadness
Chanting a broken hearted testament
Layered with passages she uses to escape with

Her essence is impossible
Her demeanor is the eye of the storm
And she moves with the grace
Of a hurricane with broken wings
Wishing she could hide beneath her dreams
When reality starts to look too much
Like a nightmare
Just so she won’t have to wake up one morning
And build up the courage to tell her children:

“Daddy’s not coming home.”

_an open letter for viviane.

“So tell me a story.”
That’s what you always said to me.
And every time I would wish I could tell you about a girl.
The first time I met her…it was awkward. And quiet.
We were both in the back seat and I couldn’t think of anything to say other than…”Hi.”
Because I could hardly speak like an SWV song.
But I promise I’ll work on it.
Maybe I’d say something cool like:

“AYO SHAWTY! You got cakes ma!
And today, I feel like being a pastry chef.
My hands could be the pin rolling up your back
Until your spine arches over sheets of red velvet
And it gets hot in here…No oven.”

But I’d never actually say that…
But with the nonsense I spoke she would fall asleep
To my voice like it was her favourite lullaby.

Or maybe I’d create a work of fiction where I could
Transform into what made you happy.
Sparkles and a unicorn.
And give you a bouquet of carrots.
I’d even wear gloves to do it
Because you don’t like people touching your food.
So I ask how I’d be able to cook you that Valentine’s day dinner.

Silence…
“So tell me something.”
That’s what you always said to me.

So let me tell you now..
A hippo can run faster than a man can.
Polar bears are left handed.
You’re not allowed to plow a cotton field with an elephant in North Carolina.
It takes up to four hours to hard boil an ostrich egg.

Or how I wish I could unlock my ribcage
To free the secrets I’ve trapped inside.
Just to watch them fly away
Along with the butterflies you gave me.
Hatched from cocoons of hi’s and hello’s
So the chrysalis they created could keep you safe.
Birthed from caterpillars that crawled like my skin did
When I realized we stopped talking.
I remember you telling me I didn’t fight for you.

And sometimes I regret how much I remember.
Or how I could never read you like the books you love so much
Or that I could never find what to say to you…
Like my words were your missing Archie comics.
Or how I hope that your grandmother pulled though.
And she’s doing fine chilling at home.
Then I realize that that was the last real conversation we had.
If you could call it that.

You always said you hated liars.
But I’m sorry for lying when I said
“I can’t sleep without talking to you.”
Truth is…talking to you kept me up for hours after.
Just so I could replay your voice in my head
Even after you’d fallen asleep already.
Straining my ears,
Hoping I could catch a stray whisper
Of your dreams past the static silence of a satellite signal.

And sometimes I still catch myself waiting for it.
But I know that those phone lines could never weave a safety net
Strong enough to break my fall
And my eardrums have retired
Because on days like this
I almost forget what your voice sounded like to begin with.

And sometimes…I still get those butterflies.
You can have them.
Along with this poem.
I remember asking you if you had a favourite.
So this is for you.
This is the one I haven’t written yet.