My Unsaid Truths

She told me
that she found her
in every halfhearted embrace,
its awkwardness,
in my save face release.

She told me
she heard her,
pacing in my dreams;
my lips,
telling her to wait
but my sheets
were far too impatient.

She said,
she caught her
in the reflection of my eyes
and now knows
why my attention is divided
in more corners
than she’d care to search for.

She says,
that she’s seen you
in the sincerest parts
of my smile
in the form
of a missing person’s flyer
and the only way
it could look more genuine
is with your redemption.
You’ve photo-bombed
every frame we shared as special
with an album
of your absence.

But still,
she says
she loves me;
more than your jealousy
ever alluded me to believe.

She says,
she loves me
because she chose to
before ever meeting you,
in my thoughts,
my touch,
our old songs
that plummet my emotions
into a marathon
of missing,
needing you.

She says,
she’s harvested enough love
to go through the winter
of my affections alone.
But the truth is,
although I miss having your mind
dwelling symbiotically with mine,
the eviction of your essence,
your memories,
of you,
is far overdue.

Accept this plea
for release,
and I’ll let our past go
at ease.



Dedicated to: You know who you are.

I would never want to
“make love” to you,
because quite frankly
I still overcook water,
and googled ingredients
could never satiate
your senses senselessly
like rain in Serengeti,
like hot mocha lattes
during cold fronts,
like Oreo McFlurries,
my backup copy of The Notebook
when your player swears
yours is “scratched,”
like nonjudgmental ears
after breakups,
the solace in hugs
when the softness of my t-shirt
becomes your favorite excuse
to be close and,
like the way I hold you
as if you were deliverance
to love held hostage.

But I do know
that your aroma
is heaven’s scent.
So let’s commence from there:
with 2 hearts of loyalty and charity,
4 armfuls of forgiveness and comfort,
generous handfuls of
gentleness and tenderness,
an eyeful of passion and
and two minds of trust
that’ll never question
our sincerity,
yet appreciate
our sarcasm.

Then, we’ll beat the badder,
the rough edges
from our smiles;
stir in the joy
with humor
and serve
with warmth,
and a friendship
worth sharing the recipe of
to our future,
so we’ll never forget
how to become love
before rushing to make
a version that’d ruin us.

Rag Doll

from hand to hand,
like transactions
worthy of a refund,
born a child of neglect,
of regrets.

from the dungeons
of reluctance,
eternal wounds
weeping for a healing
that’ll never come.

Destined to be orphaned
of attention and wants
while I gifted your lips
with temporary smiles,
funded your loneliness
with silent company,
throbbed to beats
from heavy, midnight chest,
cleansed with every gem
in eyes of every lover
weeping to the night’s twins
for a double blessing:
to heal hearts
and redeem lifetimes wasted
with I.

from the lowliest streets
of souls avenues,
from defaced homes,
and catacombs
of poisoned love.
once called me
worth your time,
your efforts
to keep me
filling the gaps
of your convenience,
between the reels
of painful memories
you playback to soundtracks
of melodic medicine,
I never showed up
in your credits,
although I could’ve sworn
I was your best
supporting actor.

I still hold
your sewing needles in place,
like flowers within vase
as if
they belonged;
for dolls,
For we


Dedicated and inspired by the victims of the 2010 earthquake in Haiti, my homeland.

they’ll attempt to find You
as if
You could ever be lost.
They’ll endeavor
to search for You in pews,
upon pulpits,
earnestly gazing in stoic faces
of statues to ask You if
You’re still here,
if You still walk
amongst the living,
if You still hear
the muffled cries
‘neath the rubble,
if Your arms
are too short to save,
if Your heart
still bleeds love
to rescue
Your children.

has no more cells
to claim us,
its body
has been baptized
with our blood.
This ground, your demesne
has no more catacombs
to entomb us.
Our limbs
are sewn in the heat.
Our bodies
are strewn in the streets
like the rubbish, the waste,
leftovers of holidays
to be remembered
by You.

Our hope
is dwindling daily;
the quake
has left us raw,
and torn,
but has made us one;
grieving and heaving
like reeds in the wind
we’re in unison,
praying to the skies
to cradle us,
to whisper peace
in dialects of wind.

Please resurrect
our ruins;
do not island us off
in your memories,
for these waves
still lap at our weakness,
please, have mercy
lest we perish,
have mercy.


We heard tears
tear at the seams of mercy,
plead for justice and found
weep between the interstice
of relentless fits,
burst from aching thirst
for vindication,
for emancipation
to drought his reign.
But only the illicitly explicit
ring doorbells here
to solicit fear near,
sear death into innocence,
and strangle dignity
to muteness;
before stitching blurred identities
and tucking the blanket of night
under soaked pillows.

spindles the vestige,
shadows of her former self
dealt no wealth of rights
‘til she craves what’s left.
All she knows
is to be collared,
cuffed, ironed,
and pocketed into holes
that will never
hold change.

She’s a hand-me,
kick-me-down patchwork;
spooled into remission
as if she were cancer,
wishing to expedite
the expedition
of these episodes untold
by any syllables,
solely audible
by bruises branded
by fistfuls-of-flesh,
fresh broken glass
and splintered wood her frame
was never meant to furnish.

We still flinch at touch
and wince at dusk,
clinging to rays
as if they’d last
‘til dawn.

The Days After

You were
a story too short
of tickling my palate
to versify your essence
in the presence
of insipid questions,
yet remnants of you remain
‘neath my fingernails,
from clawing at
the thought of you leaving.

Your spirit was always
a verse too free
of parentheses,
and even dashes.
You always dotted your T’s
and crossed your I’s
when you spelled it,
said that even letters
needed someone to hug.
Your inception
was never capitalized,
so Life
show me the backspace,
I need to delete this period.

I need
a longer story to tell,
to canvas these memories
into paintings that won’t
sugarcoat the rain,
or turn celestial cotton
into candy.
I’m crossing my heart,
And hoping
You will embrace it.

Edit Me Into

Underline me.
Stencil the image you’ve conjured
with your vulnerable imagination
of who you think I am;
that I may stand perpendicular
to the ground I’ve lost
and we’ve sought

Map the constellation of my essence.
Magnetize me to your sextant
and trust that I’ll guide you,
past my too many
unsaid truths,
and these waterfalls
of hidden realities.

Crucify me to a constant,
if it makes your faith perpetual.
For I know your vessel’s broken,
but we can drift
into the abyss of the future,
seasick and clinging to life’s ruins.

Splice me
into your genetic blueprint;
code me as recessive
and dominate my weaknesses
to mesh my faults
into your strengths,
our memories
to be in sync;
for we were always