Scars Deep

She says she
loves a sleeveful
of tattoos and I?
I’m currently
newborn bare,
an unadulterated canvas to ink.
But these scars
pigment my truths
more permanently. 

For instance,
I drew lessons
from when hurricane Andrew
drew blood from my knee.
Taught me
that severed fence poles
and knee caps
will never agree.
Taught my Dad and sister
that stories of nails through feet
should be reserved for the Gospel;
their story of redemption
was sponsored by:
tetanus shots.
You know
the type that leaves you with scars
for no reason? ūüėČūüėČ

For instance,
the deja vu twins
that freeze tagged my forearm
from when I told the nurse
the oldest twin
is proof positive for TB.
She looked at me
in disbelief;
ordered me another round of shots
and I looked at her in
disbelief like:
“Oh boo boo, what is you doin?”
She taught me
to stand by your no
the first time;
that if someone
is going to stain you with a memory
make sure the price
isn’t set to your regret. 

For instance,
when I opened the door,
allowed you entrance
to my vulnerabilities,
permitted you to touch
everything
knowing good and well
you were never planning to buy,
it shouldn’t have come to me as a surprise
when I watched you fumble
with my emotions.
Your I love yous
always sounded jittery.
My name,
never felt safe
on your lips.
My love,
unwisely trusted your hands
to handle with care
the parts of me that
would’ve never broken. 

I may not be inked
with anything meaningful,
but trust when I say
I’m scarred where it matters,
in a place where memories of you
could never be effaced…

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LOL 

Three letters long
was your reply.
The idea acronym
for when you catch
a case of the funnies and,
you were laughing out loud
all over again.

It’s not that I don’t love
your episodes of jubilance
to be authored by me.
I’d gladly sponsor
every moment
your lips part open
to release an ocean of felicity but,
your waves of elation
are no longer exclusively mine
to love and cherish.

Your reply
inundated me with questions
that I’m ill-prepared to accept like:
Does he at least
have his associates
in making you laugh
like I did?
What octaves
can he make you reach
without tickling/cheating
it out of you?
Show me his diploma
in humor
and I bet
I could spot the watermark
from your local flea market.

But to all of these you’ll tell me:
“He’s a good man.”

You see you left me questioning
where did I go wrong.
If I can still provide you
an inkling of joy
to pen into your day,
when did that stop being enough.

I realize
that I’m the butt of the joke
in this predicament.
One day
I’ll laugh out loud about this
but today,
your last laugh will be with him and
to that I say:
“May you laugh hard,
and laugh long,
just remember me when you do.
#lol”

Tell Her Before

Tell her, 
before your alarm clock 
casts her into the oblivion 
of your dreams, 
before the night 
cocoons you into slumber too deep
to hold her ‘neath the moon.

Tell her, 
before your youth 
steals your attention 
with quadratic formulas 
and dates you’ll soon forget,¬†
before maturity 
has ambitions, 
bills and retirement plans 
as priorities.

Tell her, 
that the day the stars 
were baptized in her tears,
they bore the night sky 
as their cross, 
made their pilgrimage 
across her irises
to be one amongst her pupils.

Tell her, 
she need not bathe
in Milky Way 
to accentuate her beauty. 
Glasses and curls 
can indeed be gorgeous.

But most importantly, 
be honest. 
Let her know that
whenever she exits the room, 
she vacuums out the air 
with her departure.

Let her know, 
that coherent sentences
are nigh impossible to construct 
in her presence;
that you feel 
the letters destruct 
into awkward silence
because THAT 
is just how speechless she makes you.

Tell her, 
that you miss her. 
Show her,
that you love her.

It’ll be more¬†
than the silence of my fears 
ever led me say.

Illusion

Whoever knew it could be
an instant coffin wheeling off
the pealed and sloughed,
to inhume the unsuspecting so
inhumanely,
to the land
of the unfleshed.

This strangling metal
your essence meshed into
knew no mercy,
no gender,
no age,
know  you.
You, its bride to be,
would be the centerpiece,
the metallic origami hung
in my subconscious,
in a ballroom floor
polished with my regret,
dancing to a track
that’d forever ignite my memory
as to why
I’m still trying to purge the blood
off these severed dendrites.
I just wish
words came with receipts.

The following year
you would’ve became
an architect,
but tonight’s new moon
marks the day you turned
invisible,
painted in tombstone gray.
Your liquefied blueprint
stained the interior,
and the shards
of your shattered dreams
cut the deepest.

I’m sitting here
in the passenger seat,
as I do on most nights.
The windows down
just how you liked it;
and this warm wind reminds me
of the random strands
that used to caress my face.
As I held my heart in place
and my pulse matched your pace
you’d reach for my hand,
clutch,
and downshift my worries,
patted my thigh and
said that I’d make it alive;
but no one’s here now
to say that about you.

Misty eyed,
I look in the side view mirror,
raise a picture of you,
view the broken image
and pray that the words it claims
are true.
“Objects in the mirror
are closer
than they appear.‚ÄĚ