I’ve chewed this gum to tastelessness
For I fail to find the words to describe
How wilting day-old roses make me feel
As I cringe to the sound of cuddling nearby
Among other intimacies…
I attempt to make it a testament to my strength
And regard those sounds as mindless background noise,
Not worth my time.
But if I give in to such thoughts,
Is that not already a sign of weakness?
And what now that I’ve accepted it?
Things won’t change.
I’ll have to keep pretending
That needles don’t hurt when they ***** my heart
In the same way he deals me piercing stares
And lulls me into daydreams with his voice.
It’s senseless of me to continue
I’m simply digging myself into a bigger whole of despair
As my fantasies grow more fantastic.
If only I could say the roses were from him…

I bounce the energetic toddler on my knee.
His diapered ****
Is cushioned nicely against my lap
And he feels seated.

I let my **** rest on the wooden platform
Supplied with a comfortable place to put my back
And I feel seated.

I watch the cat curl around itself
Winding her tail to reach her nose
On the couch
And she feels seated.

After a long day’s work
My father stares longingly at the slender back
Curving elegantly into a wide ****
Resting on four sturdy legs
And decides to sit.

When my fingers curl into fists
Imagining your neck is between them,
Does that mean I hate you?
When the tears I shed
Because of words you said
Go unnoticed,
Is that because I see a river
Where you see a desert?

You crawl like a lizard up my back
And spit in my face
With your nasty little tongue.
Then leave me hung
Surrounded by spectators
Like the racist you are
And walk away
Like the sorry excuse for a biped
That you are.

And though DNA tests would say
That you and I have matching blood
Coursing through our veins
And our peachy skin is chiseled
Almost the same way,
I don’t see the resemblance.

In your mind,
I am out of place, harvesting cotton in pre-Civil War
Southern America.
In my mind,
You are exactly where you are:
Struggling to construct sentences
That don’t make me question
Whether I hate you.

So keep talking
And see how far you can drown me
In your gluttonous and alcohol-stained spittle
Before I stop questioning
And give you a definite answer.

The echoes of her screams
Reverberate throughout my head
As the most untender slap across the face
Lulls me to sleep.
Then morning comes
And my wrists have become tense
With his fingered bracelets
As I try to break free.
Clenched teeth appear like jail bars before me
And it would take the reverse of all the guilt
I can muster
To knock them down.
I don't have that.
I have plenty of bystanders
All eagerly entertained by someone else's misery.
Heck, I manage to entertain myself
With my masochistic tendencies.
Welcome to the show, my friends.
I gather it will be worth your time.

As the halo icicles melt
From the slender fingers of the trees,
They reassemble themselves
As sharp shards throughout my hair
And make me feel enshrined
In the Snow Queen’s palace;
Although slightly confused
As to whether her spell has worked on me.

For rage bubbles up inside of me
Like the volcanic lava of Vesuvius
As I carefully remove the icicles from my hair
And attempt to reassemble them
Into miniature castles,
Under the Queen’s command.

But then once the Vesuvius of my mind
Erupts,
Innocent soapy bubbles float out
And children shriek with laughter
Leaving Pompeii safe from harm.
But the ancient people worry anyway
Since historically-speaking,
Molten lava is scheduled to surface.

Should I then worry?
It hasn’t yet singed my pores
But rains have attempted to fabricate themselves.
Yet something has managed to hold them back.
I am not so grateful.

We packed in tighter and tighter.
Searching in the dim-lit room for a proper foothold.
The only space for my arms
Was close by my sides.
Movement was limited.
***** of sweat condensed
All over my skin.
It served as the perfect glue for my clothes.
My shirt wrapped tightly
Around me
As if it was holding on for dear life!
I felt imprisoned in black and white stripes
And donning a blood-red skirt
That just had to come off.
I grappled with the clenching fabric
As a steady, percussive beat
Rumbled through my head.
But no, it would have been wrong.
What kind of sick pleasure
Would I derive from this?
So what if another girl had
Teased him
With her stripping?
So what if others had chosen to fling their
34D size bras at him
With pleasure?
And he hung the black cups
From his neck
As if that was the civilized way
To catch sweat
Dripping from his moustache.
But the crowd was entertained
The band played on.

When swirls of heavy air begin to
Curl up in the
Core of your
Throat and
To speak is a
Feat you
Don’t wish to
Endure
Because you
Fear a
Frog will
Leap out in place of
Thought-out
Words and you
Can’t risk that;
Can’t process the
Unspeakable,
No pun intended

So assume your worst about my
Desert-dry lips and my
Purple-bagged eyes and my
Shuffling trot.
But truth be told,
You know the feeling of
Tadpoles growing into
Bullfrogs
In the pit of your
Voicebox
And you avoid those people
At all costs
So the frog won’t leap
From my throat to yours,
Good luck.