Juneteenth + 1

Tags

blacklivesmatter, domestic violence

Black folx rise Phoenix from bullet dust. It is June. Dark clouds and rainbows co-exist. They cannot wait for Rowling to paint them. Settle for nothing less than thunderstorms, my lovelies. Let me savor the histories you will write.

We will raise a glass (a bottle) of red as you sparkle. Fierce lightning.

Gaslighting. We see all colors. Some days, too many. Maybe one day, you will march for our souls, beaten black and blue.

Summer solstice is imminent. Every day is the longest.

Virus

Finally
Everyone knows
How it feels
To wear a mask
And be afraid
All the time
Of touching
Of being touched
Of air
Of breathlessness
Of dying

 

 

My Main Squeeze

When life gives you lemons,

1. Roll them on smoothness to release their juice.

2. Shave off the rind — that’s where all the flavor is.

3. Squeeze. Squeeze those bitches till they ain’t nothing but pulp.

4. Toss away the seeds — they are worthless, and choke you as you down them.

5. Add sweetness. Their juice is unpalatable in its natural state.

6. Discard the remnants in compost, because you care about the environment, the future of your children.

Lumped in a biodegradable sac, you give ’em a final squeeze before hurling them into the bin, leaking.

C%nts! Why do they cry each time?

Wick in Candle Stick

risinG, Cowering,
dodging lashes
of the wind,
off the wind (who knows
which way
the wind shall blow
today.)

Will I disappear
Into a statue
of wax or Will
I be blown
Off with a pfthoosh!
Before my time
is done,
my love?

Yellow and Blue

Tags

furniture, marriage, relationships

Marriages are like IKEA furniture. You spend many a Saturday finding the one that’s just the right blend of character and comfort. The one that is most you. Then you take the plunge and bring it home.

After an epic bout of cussing, hammering and Twister-esque bending to make mismatched holes and poles align, you ride high on pride, accomplishment and various shades of smug. You marvel at your creation. Unique. Non-conforming (manuals are for sissies). Yours.

You have overcome the worst.

Except, you’re not in college anymore. You’re stuck with it, after finals, after the holidays, after the sexy new 2017 catalog with sleek lines and modern finishes is out. You watch as your creation disintegrates under the harshness of the sun, the monsoons and mould.

Through the years, it has become a collection of memories in the form of pee stains and wine spills — relics of failed parenting and failed escapes.

The times you spent plopped upon it, ignoring it, all the while immersed in your Facebook feed, has left a permanent impression on it. Like sagging butt-cheeks, the damage cannot be undone.

Marriages are like IKEA furniture. They are not meant to last forever.

The Old And The Wristless

Cutting, painful? Only for the tentative millisecond when the razor befriends the epidermis. Much like dipping one’s toes into a hot bath (much like sex) — once the warmth of the flowing river engulfs your naked flesh, you feel a tingling of bliss, followed by a wave of nothingness.

We are born immersed in blood, so is it not natural that our comfort lies in soaking it up, like the smell of naphthalene on an old comforter?

Cutting, birthing, getting high on naphthalene…such is the privilege of youth. The rest of us on the precipice of senility, rub cocoa butter on the zigzags of yesterday and do the most dastardly acts of all — we live.

program 42

Fuck you, world. Fuck you, uterus.

Swim Lessons

Standing on the confluence of bravery and cowardice, I remind myself to breathe before the inevitable current drags me to my next demise.

You thought I’d be a better swimmer by now. You thought I’d doggy-crawl my way to the shore.

You should’ve known better than to expect anything but disappointment from me. And if I meet that expectation, I have failed to disappoint you. Either way, the cat dies.

Salmonella

Let me walk on eggshells. Do not mop the vomit of my many selves.
Call me bitch, a useless whore, while my children quiver in bed. If not for the warmth of their midnight legs flung over my body, I’d rather you leave me for dead.

A Place On Earth

This place I call home is paradise city, muse of impressionists, and darling of honeymooners. I know now the irrelevance of Heaven.

For as much as I long for my every breath to cease, I yearn not to return to this heaven.

A mirror of lake is disturbed by the swan that lets out a fart in A minor. Tchaikovsky giggles in his grave. 

Histamines battle to capture my breath. If only wars were so easy.