Is it okay that I started so late?
“Dance for me.” I whisper to the words entrenched in the blades of my being.
When they listen, they dance diligently at every turn.
Going at a h y p n o t i z i n g speed until
It seems like all things have finally left me. I mean to include words too – my most forgiving savior.
I am convinced that it is part of the final stage of this long odyssey I’ve en-trailed on for almost twenty-two years.
Heavy, hot flashes of headaches and turbulent washes of emotion fill my days.
For over a year, I could scarcely feel emotions that deeply and now they are beginning to cloud me. They make everything almost impossible: work, course-work, and preparing for an entrance exam so I can achieve my dream.
I am still breathing and pressing on. That has to count for something?
I wish I could capture this toxic milieu of feelings and sensations into poetry. I don’t even want to try. That’s how I know how far gone I am.
I do know something with a troubling amount of certainty: It will get better, but not before it gets worse.
Everything is so far away — a tonic away.
Trauma makes abrasions,
lines and circles that exquisitely permeate
and colour the lens of our eyes; the blood of our mind.
Poison’d in entrapment.
I am neither here nor there,
my mind, set on tempests.
While the heart,
flowing words–hold me close;
I am sanguine.
the rich redness of life, repose,
and everything in-between.
With nothing behind,
I cry and cry in sweetness: bound to no thing other than me.
Skin: There are miles to me.
Eyes: A deep onyx.
Tresses of Indian ink hair locks hang free
on my petite frame.
Is this beauty?
The transient and evolving features that define me?
Can you see past the flesh that envelopes me:
Hear the lofty and intricate thoughts of my mind,
The exorbitant way I love things?
The warmth of love I feel
for you and me?
Does the flesh win this waging war of time and space
or can you see me?