I imagine those prophets and priests 
staring awkwardly into the ceiling
quill in shaky hands asking,
“What? Why me? 
Centuries from now
no one will believe
these words will be like
the hieroglyphs of ancient times 
rotting on aging parchment
people will call this a lie,
that I will have written all of this
simply to have it denounced
is not worth the ink I buy!”

And I bet God must’ve clucked his tongue
and replied,
“That’s not for you to decide
This war is mine to fight
but because I can not part
my love from you
or leave you on your own to survive
I must find a way to let you choose
and the very words you write
though many will find them useless ash
some will still believe
and that is the gift I ask you to give,
the chance I wish to offer
to a growing world
who will lose interest and wonder.”

What can you say
to someone who asks
but the very least from you?

And so I bet they wrote the words
that started endless translations
soon to become the spark of confusion
and the stone to be thrown
upon those who chose
to share, to search, to seek
the love of a God
who simply asked a handful of men
to set ink to their pens 
and write the stories
that could save
a trying race.  

She’s got a dimple on her face
and when she smiles
it’s like that song
the one that says the whole world lights up
when honestly the only world lighting up
is the world “he’s” in
but I can’t help comparin’
her sass to my class
the way she sways in that black dress
unafraid and unashamed
sheer chiffon dancing with tanned legs
while my pale ones stay hidden in yoga pants

I wish I had courage like her
rocking skinny jeans even though the world says
her body’s not anorexic thin 
I’m envious and she doesn’t even know it
she doesn’t even see it
she probably won’t even understand it
cause she’s so in love with love
doing things that tug smiles from people’s mouths
as laughter roams up windpipes free 
uninhibited because she makes it easy to breathe

I paint my nails green when I think of her
and believe me when I say I wonder
why is it so hard for me to love me
to bare my insecurities 
and make known my jealousy
will that make me ugly
because Cinderella taught me that beauty on the outside
reflects beauty on the inside
so if i’m not smiling with dimples on my cheeks
tossing my hair like an herbal essence commercial on repeat  
singing with the blue birds making people stop and stare
i must be the step-sister who won’t get prince charming 

That’s what I think about when she comes to mind
She’s got pizzazz and gentleness all rolled into one sweet package
I don’t wish any kind of ill against her
I just wish I had strength like her 

I’d like to give it to you in the best most fathomable way possible, but that seems unreasonable as human beings are bound to exaggerate here and there. What was just a simple meeting of two becomes a starting point of unparalleled adventure the likes of which we all wish to be a part of at one point or another. I’ll more than likely expand and extend giving you the full extent of the emotions I felt during those whimsical moments in my life, and to those will be dusted a subtle layer of the present emotions thickened by reminiscent euphoria . Time has not made those old passions and dreams fade. Nor has time made the aches easier to handle or the wounds more bearable so I can not tell you the story of my life from my perspective as it is. 

Each moment in my mind is a memory lined and covered with more memories meshing together. They fight for significance so that they won’t be forgotten so layer upon layer of memory vie for attention and it is that reason that I can not recall fully (chronologically) the details of my past. It’s a silly thing. Ridiculous, really. How someone as young as I should accumulate such recollection malfunction is beyond me. 

All I can give you are small details my heart tells me are facts and that fiery passion that drives men on great expeditions and women even more fanciful dreams, drives me to fluff away the rest of what I can write. 

You don’t have to believe this account. After all, fiction is really just one long lie with a light spattering of truth - half truths. 

Let me stop to count the blessings instead of the scars
Let me stop to figure in the smiles instead of the tears

Because within these four walls I call home
There’s a mother and a father who affectionately hold one another
in the subtle touch of one calloused hand upon a delicately soft one
together they prove
forgiving, living and loving
are worth all kinds of trouble

There’s a sister and a brother who never cease to chatter
filling the rooms with laughter
a few annoying screams here and there
and perhaps a few tears
but we all know when a crisis is near
running to each other is more than enough 
the pains of life we’ll gladly share 

And there’s more:

The friends who call 
even the ones who text “hello” and “goodbye”
and the ones who take time out for a walk
at half past 11 beneath a star studded sky
with hot chocolate mcdee mugs  
or the ones at the hint of a ring
rush out reaching to shoulder the heartache stings
buying silly things to turn frowns upside down
making tomorrow start with a happier smile 

So while I don’t have that special someone yet
while my other half is out there still
I’m surrounded by love
and the grace of so many wonderful faces
and while my arms miss being held
while my lips miss being kissed
there’s nothing that can compare
to the people I’m blessed to call

Family and Friends.  

The sight of an open book is enticing and not in the way of fancy tablets or worldly connected pads but in the pages waiting to be touched, skimmed, and/or flipped the way some of us wait to be thoroughly ravished (yes, ravished) in the middle of a sentence, 10 minutes before midnight pushed up against the door. When falling is really climbing towards a release of pent up tension, the friction of which penetrates far deeper than we realize, it’ll be a race to the end instead of a marathon. 

While in the margins our minds contemplate the guilt of such intense gratification. The aftermath will be riddled with soft whispers and uninhibited thoughts brought to life in the form of yearning questions, but there will never be answers. There will only be sad semi-knowing smiles and profiles glazed over by what little light we decided should be left on while the answers we want will remain caught in the skip of a heartbeat that told a half truth. 

But that last part might not even happen. 

At least with a book, if you have enough courage you get to the end and you can manage from there what you’ll take away if you take anything at all. It’ll stay with you, on you, in you even if you leave it to take a shower or to pull back on the layers it had stripped off you. The only one leaving will be… me, gingerly taking back in the ample amount of blood lost and then making a beeline for the door so as to avoid that awful question, “Are you okay?” 

Somewhere between the pages of a book and a pair of arms I wondered: are we done being young? Will the bills tell us how old we are? Will the aches in our joints define how many more tomorrows we’ll suffer? 

Can we start over? 

I am thinking of him
as I write this
the ink staining my fingers
while my tears break the bleeding pen
making “sorry” appear
like an inky blot of nothingness

Yet I want to tell him
before its too late
like the others before him
who could’ve but don’t matter now
how I want to give the time he spent back
not in punishment, no, not in that
I hate your guts, never wanna see you again
door thrust in your face kind of heated passion
but rather in that cliched desire
to re-invent time
walking back to the last moment we said good-bye
leaving it as simple as a final embrace
arms interlocking, fingers curling into tights fists
because the spaces in-between miss 
the way your fingers laced mine like nothing else
made sense in the duration of our 
night
having never made your ache or pain right
will this impromptu sorry bring to light
how when I got on my knees and folded my hands
the second my palms touched and my eyelashes kissed
at my bedside I made this one little wish:

God give me the chance
to right the hurt I’ve caused
his pain replays in my mind
an endless cycle of shattered glass
I’ll listen to you this time
just give me the words
whatever they are
this sorry is coming
from a strangled heart

I’ve passed it over before
claiming myself the victim
but since I’ve been there and back
I understand now what I lack
and though Love holds no blame
I am filled with so much shame
will he take this apology, this plea?
Will you listen to me?  

I found myself wondering what it’d be like to be a single mother… to have a child by my side with an absent father while I worked more than one job to make all those endless ends meet. 

Because after all, what does a single woman like myself have to offer except for those lingering nights where the pillows never really feel my weight and the moon is still gleaming while I’m pulling away? Must I have a child to have my pain and my struggles validated as if…without that child what I’m going through pales in comparison? (I’m not seriously contemplating that, it’s just a thought that’s managed to find its way inside my heart.) 

My friends tell me don’t worry, you’ll get what you deserve one day and I can’t help but wonder, what do I deserve? 

My struggles aren’t those of a single mom. I don’t have a child and I make do with what I have, but does that make the trials I have less than? I have an accumulation of school debt behind me; I’m currently working on a career which I know absolutely nothing about and let’s top it all off with the fact that I still live at home at the age of 22. Why do all these things make me feel inadequate? 

I never once belittled anyone’s pain or suffering and I don’t hold someone’s trials over someone else’s because don’t we all suffer through grief of some kind? Why do we feel the need to weigh one as more than the other when the tears that fall as a result are all the same. Salty. Bitter. Empty. Lonely. 

About the only thing I’m sure I deserve is a chance at forgiveness (but even that I’m not sure I’ll get and even then, should I even be asking for it) because I don’t believe I’m that smart or that pretty so I’m sure I’ll be clumsy and I won’t always deliver my thoughts all too well…and the mistakes I make will definitely be plenty. 

I have this odd worry that there won’t ever be a man out there in this big wide world who can forgive me for all the mistakes I make. And because he can’t forgive me of these things, loving me will only be harder and so I wonder sometimes if it’s better for me to live a life void of such a desire.

I wonder if I immerse myself enough away from the world of carnal sensuality would I find myself “right” or “pure” enough for someone to believe in me.

Her hands folded together tightly. She listened as he told his story and accepted the blame quietly. She bit her tongue, kept her lips from trembling and held her beating heart as still as possible and let his words do the damage. No smart retort and sharp remark could be made in her defense. She heard the pain and the hurt spill forth like an endless waterfall welling from the deepest depths. 

Each word, each accusation became a knife thrusting itself, reaching for her unclean soul, penetrating her weak heart and there was nothing she could do to defend herself because she knew she deserved it. Her hands didn’t move; she didn’t flinch when he tossed salt onto the wounds either. 

No tears fell this time. 

Not until his words stopped and he turned and walked away did the tears begin to stream because she wasn’t the victim and so her tears could not fall in front of him. He didn’t hurt her, she hurt him. Alone, she opened her chest and began to wipe away at the wounds she knew would be left for her to clean, but not a single thought of hate could rise from within.  She glanced up, knowing she was the one who hurt him, knowing nothing she could do or say would ever change the betrayal he felt so she let him go and consoled herself. 

Cleaning the salt took time but she did what she could, brushing her hands over her heart, removing the granules stung but she held on and continued until she got rid of what she could. Then slowly, she stood up and closed her chest. Her soul was cracked and her heart was awkwardly re-bandaged. She let his words sink inside again and she bled again. She could not find another reason for this pain and she knew it was her fault so she walked away on trembling legs making vows to stay in that place of utter loneliness; she punished herself..sentenced the rest of her life to one of wishes. 

Perhaps you’d say that it’s too harsh. Perhaps you’d ask what he did. Perhaps you’d even think that she’s being too hard on herself…. but life is not fair. 

Bitterness comes easy. Trust is like glass. 

I didn’t want to lose
everything, anything
from sun up to sun down
I didn’t want to lose
the five dollar bill in my wallet
to the gas station at the end of the road
but fuel for my car is a necessity
if I intend on getting somewhere
however, let’s get serious
because aside from the financial means
we all need in day to day living

I sure as hell
didn’t want to lose
confidence in my worth
when pop songs and r&b hits
kept comparing my femininity
to the amount of a dime
as if being a ten was enough
to make me feel alright
that still doesn’t change the fact
that my value is accounted for
in monetary exchange
aren’t I worth the quality of time instead? 

I didn’t want to lose
my heart when he bought dinner  
and I don’t want to be expected
to give up the essence of my self-assurance 
just cause I came off confident enough
passing off my vulnerabilities
as if they weren’t going to be a hindrance  
as if I was going to be whole enough
to fill the empty spaces at your place 
but I’m not big enough to make addictions 
fiction and I’m not strong enough 
to control the outcomes of a passing phase
so I can’t erase the permanence of yesterday
and I can’t take away the stifling desire of 
arms missing embraces  

all I can do is say
that I wish I was enough
to not fear losing out 
to the insufficiencies 
buried in the weariest parts of this heart
and I wish I had courage
to fully believe that losing doesn’t make you weak
that letting go is just another way to begin 
again

When I was about six 
or maybe eight
my grandpa used to make this drink:
mug 3/4 of the way with hot water
and 1/4 of the way condensed milk
it was the drink of a child
because he told me I’d shrink
if I drank too much coffee

Well, grandpa if only you could see me now 
standing at 4 foot 7 there’s not much to look at
since the space I consume is probably only 1/4 
of the place I’m currently standing in  
so somewhere along the way I ended up with too much
coffee in my system and I guess that’s why I haven’t grown
but I can say with a good degree of confidence
and whether or not this makes a good deal of sense
that watered down drink led me on the path
to coffee 

And to coffee I propose this toast: 

After every single heart ache 
the muddy in-between boyfriends
and dates that won’t get past the preliminary 
good evenings with last minute kisses remaining
mind-numbing mysteries
After all the tears on rainy days
the sleepless nights of turning and kissing pillows
the cliche romance movie nights (by myself)
you never cease to anchor my senses
bringing warmth to my center 
accompanying  the sun rise 
with you I tell myself
it’s more than alright