The burgundy bugs crawl all around in my brain. Dancing under the pink meat of my face. Their little sticky, sinister feet march again and again. If I wasn’t insane I’d probably feel the bass of their feet dancing under the pink meat of my face. Chomping on the raw insides of my cheeks… Continue reading A Pantoum on Infestation
Sonnet 2: The Blues A blue butterfly landed on my windowsill last night and I let him in because you had the same eyes. But his skin was blue and yours was black but your aura had a blueness to it. Do you still feel that way sometimes Blue? You never told… Continue reading Sonnet 2: The Blues
Sonnet 1: A Love Poem I’m exactly what you said I would be. The sin, the stain, the blood, the pain, the wrath, the greed. I’m nothing more than you thought of me. I’m just like your nightmares, except I bleed. My blood reeks of salty teardrops and hate. It reeks of soggy darkness… Continue reading Sonnet 1: A Love Poem
AB. The blood. Blood of his story. Bandaged. The blood. Blood of his story. Abrasive. The blood. Blood of his story. Barbecued. The blood. Blood of his story. Abused. The blood. Blood of his story. Ballistic. The blood. Blood of his story. Abnegated. The blood. Blood of his story.… Continue reading Red Whine
The Alien in the Alley She is hairy and Abstract and lives on the walls with wings dipped in black. She’s not a cliché fly. She is a jaw-dropping butterfly. A goddamn mighty butterfly. With vivid, godly wings that are lengthy like sophisticated words. She, a spellbinding creature, surrounded by bile… Continue reading The Alien in the Alley
Amethyst; that was her name, and that was the shade of her strut. She’d float down the sidewalk like an apparition, in high-heels sharp like the corners of counters, and force the smell of manually-mashed passionfruit to mingle with the cool air. Click, clack. Click, clack. The heels. Left, right. Left, right. The eyes. She… Continue reading AmethysT
He will always be home. The smell of that apple-scented candle lingering through the vents of the house Shoes with muddy tongues lined up by the front door Red, hot stove burners alive on Sunday mornings Scratches and greasy fingerprints cluttering the worn porcelain bowls Battered pillows covered in drool and old make up Wrinkled… Continue reading Residency.
First, she lost the waves of strawberry blonde that ended at her waist. Then she lost her mouthwatering skin, a bright and throbbing red like a bed of ripe and ready strawberries in a strawberry field. She used to have a tasty, round figure that everyone would drool over, but now she’s dry, with off-black… Continue reading Death and Decaying.
She was carried down to the earth on the sun on a summer day in May. And she was carried up to heaven on the moon on a cold, dark, night. She appeared in my dream one night, adorned in a purple dress, eating an orange Creamsicle. She birthed thirteen children, six boys and seven… Continue reading Grandma Faye.
She liked her coffee black Black like the curly locks that drape around her head. Black like the timeless, smooth, skin that hugs her bones. She was born in the thirties. And died in the nineties. She couldn’t get an education, so she made sure her three children did. She was born in Texas. And… Continue reading Grandma Amie.