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? 😉😉

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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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… 

Broken Home

We worked at the same place,
or at least
held the same position.
I clocked in a day late,
got lost in the transition,
of picking up our daughters
from softball and gymnastics.
Was it your turn or mine?
I know I promised I’d be on time
but perfection requires practice,
right?
Maybe it’s somethin’ about the schedule,
but I’m tired of making excuses.
*sighs*
We’re just
not as well oiled
compared to our yesteryears,
or maybe
Life’s wristwatch is set on the wrong day.
(Always did prefer the quartz over digital)

Perhaps,
fate’s train had for us,
different destinations.
Mine headed west to set,
yours headed east to rise
and I calculated
that at some noon,
some midnight
we would’ve met,
in a moment between blinked seconds.
But your eyes were
always closed,
back towards me,
head rested on a stranger’s shoulder,
always asleep.

My life raced passed
these solid slabs of antiquity,
raised in the promising suits of perfection,
yet made corruptible by every season.
Spring bombarded them
with photons of felicity,
but we ignored the dents it left behind then.
Summer reigned ‘neath sorrowful skies,
corroding the sharp edges,
but we were defiant to its rule,
did not heed its forecast.
Autumn engulfed them,
attempted to make them
one of itself as it proclaimed,
“Gloom shall befall you!”
But we should’ve listened to Winter,
as it clothed these edifices in purity,
encasing them in cold death,
we stood frozen in its grip,
bound in eternal,
crestfallen matrimony.

Still my nose pressed
against these subway windows,
with worthless hopes
cast into a wishing fountain
long ago;
and when these trains
finally did meet
or at least cross paths;
and for that millisecond
that our presence were in sync,
I grasped your hand,
held it.
Did not let go,
kept it
close to my soul,
embedded
so deep within that
your closed hand became my heart.
Fingers opened,
and closed.
Opened,
and closed.
Grabbing my love that is still
opened
and closed
for you,
to you…
As your fingers bleed times of softest touches,
caressing the deepest scars into wishes.
Wishing that I would’ve met you
lifetimes ago to avoid these scars,
or maybe wishing that you would
never become one upon my heart.

So I’m standing here
at your doorstep,
greeted with an air of oddity.
I’m out of place,
not like our tilted,
framed marriage photo in the living room
that left wondering visitors with sore necks;
not like the orange lilies
of yesterdays resting atop the toaster,
love forsaken despite being your favorites.
No.
I’m standing outside the door of a stranger.
Standing outside,
with a tray of honest promises
and a concrete mix of hope,
prepared to fix
what I’ve broken.
Outside the door,
of a marriage in need of saving,
a soul with forgotten cravings,
lonely roads in need of paving,
outside,
of a broken home.