i don't really know what to call it

some poems and afterthoughts

MY BABY,
I saw the embodiment of temptation 
Wrapped in brown skin
Drowning in cashmere
With nickel sized eyes

What's with the perversity and eroticism towards the unfamiliar
Do you know what I mean? 
The winds tell me to choose my own crucifixion wisely
As I have begged God just to be a cog in your machine
Now I will make a dinner out of you

I used to tell my old lovers stories without saying any words, just a furrowed brow, a twisted lips and whistling breath between my gap-toothed mouth. Patience of the tongue feels like waiting for the sky to come down— it just don’t. I have the patience of hungry dog packs in old countrysides.

I couldn’t tell for the longest of times if it were better to speak with my lips or with my eyes, so I became invisible like the sun-died bleached blond arm hair in the summer.

dig through this flesh of mine like sod
trying to snatch the sewings of humiliation out
nobody knows obsession like me
but maybe those moths banging against glass,
to eat the light from the bulbs coated with dust and old dreams
at least all my secrets belong to me

Sometimes I feel guilty for not being angry enough… like I got bitched out or something. they think rot is only for the winter time, but everything spoils in heat too, like schoolyard crushes or fallen leaves. Both have that familiar sweet smell to them still…I know you have no plans for me. I was no woman with furs around my nape and no hint of upper echelon underneath the fingernail, just all the things I sort of haphazardly flung together, a brandishing of youth, a tall tell sign of my misconfiguring. I wished more to revel in spring splendors than to curate my look for the summer. I’ll wear this baggage of fresh stupor instead, I will get drunk off my presumptions instead of conversation.

I got the pride of a nigga sometimes I swear, so much so I developed a reflex to turn my chest cavity into cement, this senseless beating leads me into hopes I haven’t got the courage to pursue yet. I bet you can tell by the way I word things I just can’t admit I really liked you. Then I try to cover this humiliation by saying how “no it was really them who liked me first” but still I allowed enticement. All in the hopes of being special. But I end up being one of those vessels used for someone’s ego boost. I am no victim of you, in the way that a sailor is no victim of the sea— I knew the storms to come.

I get this feeling you know I still look for remnants of you in the strangest of places. Im annoyed! How to get over someone I never got the chance with. I start to wonder if I desired too much staring into those foreign syrup colored eyes of yours. Im being dramatic, aren’t I?