Do it For You

You decided
to break my heart 
before we met. 
I decided
to love you still
with the pieces left. 

You said
you needed to do things
for you, 
for your happiness. 
I agreed. 
I too, 
needed confirmation 
that your smile wasn’t residual
to the afterthoughts of him. 

You made it clear
that a friendship
was what you needed,
one where trust
wouldn’t be ceded. 
I obliged
to hold your heart
til it hop scotched 
into a notch of love
it could be itself around. 

You, 
sounded more
bothered than okay, 
more flustered than
nothing’s wrong, 
more agitated than
you’re fine
but maybe, 
maybe I shouldn’t 
want to talk about it either. 

I’m not a knight
but a bleeder,
not a hero
but a seeker of
what more could I do
to help you forget him? 

What enchantments can I use
short of black magic
to pry your thoughts loose
from leeching on to him? 
How often must I remind you
that your soul
is far too beautiful
to keep cracking
over his faults?
How long
will you remain victim
to his vault 
of emotional assault? 

Please,
come back to me. 
I need you to remember
who you are,
need you to remember
that love is a promise
you made to yourself first,
need you to remember 
your worth 
will always be more valuable
than his barcodes
of depreciation. 

I beg of you, 
before he shackles 
the rest of your existence
to the rust of things you once were, 
to picture frames
of smiles you once knew;
I implore you 
to find yourself
in your scars, 
heal yourself
past the wounds, 
and love yourself
for you. 

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Move

Move. 

Contrary 
to your exclusive beliefs 
she doesn’t want to be 
a couple dressed in secrets,
clandestine companions
furtively in fashion
with all things pretty privy. 

Move.

She’s told you
on countless occasions 
to make your manifestations of love 
a little more obvious like:
you can at LEAST
change your FB status 
to taken now. 
I mean it’s only been… 

Move. 

Remember that convo
where her eyes 
uncapped the vials of her tears, 
poured them into your lap
in hopes of saturating 
some part of you
to squeeze into action?
Why does she always
have to plead 
for you to… 

Move. 

Oh, you said
you’re waiting for the right time? 
Seven years post intros,
five years of exclusivity,
three years of officially
making it verbally official,
and all that falls under
“still dating?”  
I wonder
if she know this? 

[Move]
She thought
you were building
something together. 
[Move..]
You must’ve thought
her patience was eternal. 
[MOVE…]
She thought
you were different.

Watched you flirt 
with commitment
to so many other things
other than her, 
that now she questions
why her shadow vows
to even stay.

She wasn’t 
holding out for perfection,
clearly. 
She didn’t beg you
to rescue her,
didn’t ask
if you’d buy her the moon
when your account
boasts of craters bigger
than that found upon it.
She didn’t even take
Beyoncé’s advice 
to force you to put a ring on it and yet, 
she was good to you. 

All she asks now is that you

Move… 

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”

His Eye is On The Sparrow

When you discover
that every tear shed
will not purge you
of his memories;
that every fallen drop
isn’t equivalent
to the distance
he falls away from you;
that your
rain-forest eyes won’t reset
to detect a love
better felt than seen.

When you unearth the value
in your coarsest traits,
disassociate his appraisal of you
with his attention.
Your self-worth
has always been
independent
of his last name.

When you realize
your loyalty,
your commitment,
your efforts to
“stay the course”
while he detours
to another’s arms were all
to strengthen your knees
to kneel amidst the rocks
and find God
in the hardest of places.

When you realize
that every sip
of his rejection
is followed by the aftertaste
of finding yourself,
it’ll still taste bitter,
you’ll still want to chase it
with a gallon of whys.

It still won’t make you feel
any less used,
your time
no less wasted,
your love
no less abused.

But you
will love yourself better.
You’ll discover
that tears can indeed be for joy.
You’ll unearth
the precious,
the beautiful,
the richest
of jewels in you.

Most importantly,
you’ll flourish in his absence
when you’re alone
in His presence,
for His eyes
are always
on the sparrow.

Doomed to Fail (aka DTF)

She said,
her optimism is dying daily.

Fading fast 
in the hands of men 
who love to touch 
but never buy, 
show interest 
solely to shy 
away from commitment, 
leave her questioning
if the price tag of her morals 
are indeed too steep.

How long 
will they attempt to convince her 
that her worth should be on clearance,
her dignity 
on layaway,
her mind 
filing for bankruptcy 
when they can’t manage 
to hold a deep conversation adequately.

They 
tell her she’s loved instead 
with the receipt of their words 
ready to purge 
every accountability of the verb. 
Their insurance, 
is an assurance to leave 
she receives with 100% guarantee, 
no questions asked
when “putting out” 
no longer warrants them to stay.

She says, 
her optimism is daily dying.

Dying in the womb 
of her next relationship
before she ever meets 
Mr. Next. 
You’ll call her cold, 
even with 
your fingers on her thermostat. 
When 
did you ever think 
“DTF” 
was an acceptable 
“pickup line?”

She’s telling you 
that she’s losing faith in us!

And I know 
you’re not listening
because the game is on, 
you’re not listening 
because you only tune her in 
during commercial breaks, 
you’re not listening 
because children stay silent 
when adults are speaking.

When YOU 
finally learn 
how to approach a woman, 
you’ll probably expire
before the occasion occurs, 
but if you don’t, 
“DTF”
will still be 
an inappropriate approach, 
your imagination 
will at large 
be unimaginative, 
at worst 
the rejections will embolden you 
to use it more, 
at best 
you’ll still be 
doomed to fail.

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.

Honestly

I think they said
we look good together;
wasn’t sure if it was in reference to:
our handmedown,
mismatched overalls that we wore as skin,
your long and layered
my short and wavy hair,
or that our hands held
could almost pass for the flyest jordans,
with your lighter
laced-like fingers gripped around mine;
so I’m
still not sure
if I should be offended or not.

I wish
I could believe them,
nod in agreement
like a bobblehead,
bouyant on waves of optimism,
but the pessimist in me
still holds grudges.

Honestly,
your compliments sometimes
reminds me of the days when
your ancestors declared it sin
to look upon a woman
shades lighter than my palms;
when they would’ve
bound our hands,
noose us on trees
as they tried to make
our whole race
Autumn like leaves,
but this is Spring
and there’ll be no Winter
to wither our love.