meow meow

domesticated

sleep is the cousin of death
so i stay lifted, shifted like fine grains
out of some sort of strainer
pushing my guts out my ears like
sausage spitting meat grinders where
nervosas are flowers in life's great wonderful
fucking garden, my thoughts like weeds
plowing through god's good seed spilled on
fallow, hungry, dry earth.

this is that moment when the moon
even hides its face outta boredom
from peeking in too much trying to gain a
pervert knowledge of my turns and curves
the way my spine collects at the dimple above my
ass, where the bruise keeps singing every time i press it...
yeah that's how i'll remember you.
ugly, yellow, outlined in a purple hue hugging
onto muscle craters that once would produce
strong children.
or so grandmother says.

it's that type of night where nightmares come
peeking outta closets and nestling onto the bookshelf
eating pages outta my mysteries and legends,
already foretelling a bad ending and i
forget to breathe knowing all these bad ass
bitches think they have me pieced together,
think they know me so well
like some sort of piece of worn leather you wear
over that softly torn cheek i told you to turn over
every time i spat in your face, your eyes, you are beat.

sleep, the cousin of death crowds this room
asking me why i hate him so and all i can
recall is that moment on my back when clarity came
knocking but I was too fucking dry to make a noise,
a peep, just a fuckin squeal and i would have been saved.
but instead i took these bruises like badges of honor
from lost sisters, fuck those brothers, stuck in the mud
in the crud, in the lies and the pains every striking blow
aimed. i hate you because i can. i hate you,
because I will. i hate you, because it's something i can manage
turning into a feeling, a thought, an action and something i
can believe in. I hate you because you're fucking human. I hate
because I am.

this is that sort of moment when tears are supposed to crowd my eyes
like bullet points at that meeting where
we figure out who to cut and carry, divide and bury to make
our profits sprout out of some poor desk slave's neck.
this is that moment i'm supposed to lay my head down in sighs and wonder
what's it like to not be rude, bruised, crude and abused.
the part where i stand up and raise my hand crying out
"teacher, teacher what's my lesson...I'm a victim, I'm a blessing"
I'm sorry but my shit has never blossomed poppies and dried out opium seeds
where i can dumb your mind into thinking im some
sort of storybook line, or rhyme or better yet,
accept me as some sort of crime.

you know youre good when youre not caught.
you steal away from the scene with blood on your hands, someone
else's screams erupting out of your ears.
i hope the next time she cries, you see me.
i hope the next time she lies, you fucking feel me
writhing and squirming under your big, harsh dry hands
like that earthworm in second grade you would tear apart
just to feel like digging dirt
was worth somebody's fee of life.
i hope the next time she leaves, she doesn't come back.
i hope the next time she bleeds, it'll be her last.
i hope the next time she runs, she'll never stop
and i hope the next time I tell her she's beautiful
she'll know it's true.

Sleep. I tell her to sleep. She wants to tell
me stories. She fears the dark corners.
I tell her I could never understand.
But it's that moment, when the Moon gets bored of
peaking inside you, it's that moment
where worth is but a scar, a passing shade,
and you believe it's true when you're called every
name in the book, and he does it to protect you,
and you believe the lies and traps set for you,
the hollow eyes devouring every ounce of your fresh
young skin, using cracked nails to tear the semblance
of humanity you thought you had left where ugly is the
best thing you could hope for on those roughed nights
where your favorite color is the pool of blood on the blue tiled floor
because it reminds you of that dress you wore when you first met,
but you hate when it gets on the rug, somehow it always gets on the rug
and the bleach you use burns the cuticles you took so much time
to cut away and remove, where you are not good enough
and your apologies are insults to injuries you wish you understood,
where youll never know why his love is so...
is so...
is so...
sleep. It'll all be over, soon.



xoxoxoxooxxoxo

Open mic tomorrow. We shall see :)

I want to sleep so badly. This sickness is just killing me. Also, it doesn't help I get hung up on assignments and blog postings when i could be sleeping. BOO :(

Taco Bell fast starts today haha. I am such an enabler.