August 12, 2009

i am a consideration,

a beacon of understanding

that some things are hard to come by

and some things

are hard to let go of.

hold me, always, to this promise.

but if i am nothing more than blank promises

if i am nothing more than the stares i give
when you ask me for something more
than i am willing to bend for
when i am telling you things are perfect
when things have gotten to the point where
even my writing it down doesn't save me
if my writing doesn't save us
hold me to that promise.

some things change easily.
like the quickening of my pulse
whenever i find myself shifting
from one foot to the other
to regain some sort of balance
and everyone knows i'm clumsy
so the shifting is a risk of falling
way too far
way too fast

love
there is only one thing i need to tell you
i have never been able to stand still
my shoes have the souls of champions
but i planted my heart
in the soil of the places where you sleep,
in the ground you walk on,
so i know that every step
will bring you closer
.there are few things i know better than myself
i know your heartbeat
i know it thumps faster when our hands touch
and our hands never stop touching
i know my pulse
never slowed down in the last few minutes
when i knew that i would be leaving
and i knew that i wanted nothing more
than to walk where you walk
and never. stop. touching.

my love is not idle
it has quick-started the rhythm in my chest to make something
more beautiful than i could ever make by myself
so, here,
play my strings. make them yours.
my body is a raging cacophonyuntil your fingers touch the strings in my bones
and play them like a symphony of hope
there are some things i can't forget
like the perfection in those first few seconds
of fumble-kissing,
the way my eyes never left that
goofy smile on your face,
that goofy look on your face,
never. letting. go.

i fall asleep to your breathing
and wake up wondering
where i am
and why you're not beside me

i'm beside myself, love.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

my mother was a bruise-taker. she was a lightweight pro at the heavy blows. show her any ER on the west side and she'd show you every seat she'd ever sat in without my knowing. the day she left him was the day she stopped wearing make-up. when i was small, my mother posted our photos to the back of christmas cards like milk cartons. inside, descriptions of us, should we ever go missing. she was missing home and life before becoming a statistic. sidebar: did you know that black women are abused at a rate 35 percent higher than that of white women? fuck statistics. women are women and people who disrespect them are filthy. my mother discovered this when she came to my room after hearing my shrieking. i had thrown my puppy out of the window, convinced it could fly because i knew for sure that my mother could. my father was her launchpad. i'd never heard something so loud as sirens and the sounds of heart and jaw breaking simultaneously. i'm not a survivor. i learned to block shit out at an early age. my mother was a blindfolder. i could read fairy tales and bedtime stories before i could read evidence.


my grandmother could. my grandmother was a prayersayer. she was a champion of slinging her biblical weaponry in the face of danger and saying take. that. show her any page in the bible and she'd show you a verse that could save your fucking life. the day she felt my mother's features changing, she felt the impact before a hand was lifted. my grandmother took our last known address to her prayer circle warriors and praised up a beacon. she was no pacifist. she knew that some evils couldn't just be sung hymnals to so she gathered up the men in our family to front the artillery line of hope. they packed up a van to salvage what was left of my mother's scars. i am lucky. and thankful. that all that was taken from me was a stupid gold earring on the stupid seat of that rental.






i wasn't sure whether or not it was an exaggeration. but it was brought up at least once a year once i got old enough to deal with things.










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