Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Our First Christmas

The Queen’s Speech will be on soon.
We are in a palace of ripped wrapping paper and sentimental consumerism,
playing house under the Christmas tree,
as the aroma of dinner beckons from the kitchen.
You trace the diamonds that you’ve left on my neck,
soft whispers, with a bottle of cheap booze between us,
as the anthem rings out from the ignored television set.

You spill vodka down my dress,
the sailor stripes across my chest are wet,
your former drink working it’s way through the fabric, to my breasts,
and you are so apologetic,
dabbing, so dramatic, with the napkins that were left on the coffee table.

Tinsel tangled around my wrists,
fevered, delirious kisses,
our bodies glisten and glow under the flicker of fairy lights,
and your voice is warm, as it whispers in my ear.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Day That She Met My Family

Met you at the movies,

sweet hands shaking as you hold me close,

stealing a cigarette from me,

though you don’t smoke,

because you’re choking on nervous energy,

and thought it might help.

(It didn’t).

We got some tickets for later,

to see something romantic,

so your panic over our actual plans wouldn’t feel like such a death sentence.

I sensed a presence,

without even calling my papi on the ouija.

You insist that they’ll be pleased to see me,

but not you.

It wasn’t true,

but you had found the idea at the back of our closet,

got lost in it,

and let it burrow inside your brain,

so nothing I said would settle your nerves.

So confident you used to be,

(my Yoda impression did not help alleviate your anxiety),

and I repeatedly reminded you that they were just people,

but you weren’t ready to accept that they’d accept you,

so all I could do was hold you tight,

and hope that you’d understand eventually.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

End It All

If it has to happen, let it happen now,

let the world end while I am somewhat satisfied,

oh, wheel of fortune, let me die in her arms,

vaccinated and placated, no longer reachable by reality,

end my life, while I can still hear the harmony of our heartbeats.

Meeting her in my dreams each night,

holding her in my heart, and my arms as I recover,

alleviates the boring torture of days without her.

Internally, I am eternally hers,

relentlessly ready for the end,

if I can end it all as her lover.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Dreams Untold

In the middle of the night,

after the stars had seen fit to pay a visit,

my mind was finally made up.

Dark thoughts, rainbows and confused kisses,

everything was okay,

finally I was still for a second,

in touch with my soul,

not sure what to say to her,

in awe of how I could be a constant mystery to myself,

tempted to open my window and wail the truth,

eventually deciding against it.

Long ago, I saw myself as a man’s wife,

yet that life now belongs to a stranger,

and all that I am is lipstick prints in reds and pinks,

layered all across the mirror, in a beautiful, confusing picture.

Everything makes sense, I suppose.

So many things I wanted, were just to prove that I could have them,

buried underneath my hurry to have him was my hunger for her,

internal whispers about how weird it felt to kiss, touch and be loved.

All that I am is unconfirmed, unassuming,

never to be truly seen.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Bots From Russia

It must be bots,

because, of course,

your streets can’t be squalid,

dripping with poison.

Reality doesn’t run side by side with your fantasy,

so you manifest new antagonists,

to avoid the fact you have been staring at the real culprits all along.

It must be bots,

bad news from Russia,

spilling monkey emojis into comment sections,

and black blood into the streets.

Eyes closed as sirens scream down the streets,

seeing conspiracies everywhere that you go,

so you don’t have to accept that your quiet runbles have ever been enough to drown out the slurs.

It’s just bots.

That’s what you tell yourself,

while a young man staggers to his mother’s door,

bathed in blood,

broken in spirit, with broken bones,

and the mark of the mauling men that you pretend don’t prowl your streets.

It must be just bots,

because to admit that his skin is bruised because he’s black is an attack on your fantasy,

and we can’t have that, now, can we?