overripe dulzura melts
over chapped lips &
the sting is
so good. you lick the thick
sweetness off your fingers
& laugh with your belly on my lap
we enjoy summer there
Advertisements
Tag Archives for identity
80’s family portrait
a 6 foot tall young man squints at the camera.
wispy brown hair frames his sun burnt face
and his thick moustache, as coarse a broom,
sits upon his lips. he wears a white polo shirt
and baggy blue jeans. sandals with socks.
his gut hangs over his belt. he is my father.
beside him is my mother. she is brown like almonds
and has puffy hair like lucille ball. she is a petite woman,
and her smile overwhelms her face. burgundy lipstick
shines her lips. she wears an oversized sweatshirt
with an enamoured taz and his wife–mrs. taz playfully
responds in bold, yellow letters–oh, you devil!
they are fearless. confident about tomorrow.
the world is moving and they are the only ones
standing still. they are young and in love.
5 reasons why i stop writing
what perplexes me
i don’t know if i enjoy it anymore
what frustrates me
i can’t think of something to write
what worries me
i don’t have the time
what scares me
i’m not any good
what stops me
i
snakebite
if i knew what hardened your hands to stone
i’d suck it right of out you. a breathless attempt
at your salvation.
you stiffen–the flowerbeds on your chest decompose
underneath the kisses i try to plant. i panic.
i am trying to remember remedies
i never learned.
bad habit
sometimes i mutter i don’t know, when i do know.
it’s a disclaimer of sorts, in moments of vulnerable diffidence.
or, i don’t know–it’s automatic sometimes, too.
white lies
when others begin to smell the
green, murky brew from my lips,
bubbling with lonely late night thoughts
i stumble. the concoction bewitched me!
i mutter weakly. this isn’t me.
breathing underwater
waking up to the dread of day
and convincing myself of its impermanence is like
trying to breathe underwater
it all feels so wrong
