Almost Poetic

Moving On

This sounds a lot like moving on:

You will talk to a man who will make the memories less brutal on your heart. Pretty soon you’ll be able to think about love without wanting to set yourself on fire.

The nights won’t be so violent anymore, and in time, the nightmares will be just another conversation at the dinner table. Speaking of, you will be brave enough to be around people without feeling your heart shake from violent thrusts of emotion.

You miss him, but you no longer write about him anymore. No longer think about him as much. Your tears have become strangers again, and you don’t know what’s worse: forgetting the bad times, or not remembering the good ones. 

Almost Poetic

The meaning of a fairytale

There are no fairytale endings for girls like us. Only whispered apologies to broken hearts in the middle of the night. Only places inside of us men use as pit stops on the way to something better. Never staying, never saying why. You will have to rain moving on down your spine. Teach your lungs to breathe without heaving out metaphors. You will have to apologize to your bones for wanting more.  Continue reading “The meaning of a fairytale”

Almost Poetic

I paint with words

I paint with words 

Sometimes the pain is a man, a limping man, not because his legs aren’t strong enough, it’s his heart that has walked a thousand miles, only to be met with nothing that wants it

This is the man in my painting, who hears the word promise and his heart translates it to shattering glass, “Please, make it stop. Tell them I’ve heard of promise before, waited with baited breath, but he’s the second coming, the never coming. All I hear is his name as a scream, a broken prayer, an abandoned temple heavy on my chest.” Continue reading “I paint with words”

Almost Poetic

Love as an oxygen mask

Sometimes love comes to give us a second chance

I was breathing in commas before you came my way

Stranger with hands that reminded me of God 

I was merely a fraction of all the tomorrows I let my yesterdays slip away with

But you came and translated my suicidal thoughts into a language only love understands

Thank you for loving me in ink

I hope to hold your heart with the delicacy of one who tames butterflies

I am naming my smile after you

Because I love the taste of your name in my mouth

Painting by Pier Toffoletti

Almost Poetic

Misplaced metaphors pt. III

If you ever master anything in this life, it is unlearning silence. You will find that being born black and a woman will make a revolution out of you. These words will be your refuge.

Sometimes your body will be a war zone and your soul will be in exile. Breathe child. And remember to come home. 

Some days your body will feel like a foreign land, your soul a nomad. Learn to stay.  Continue reading “Misplaced metaphors pt. III”

Almost Poetic

The abandoned temple

The body as a hollow place only memory remembers

The church as some nostalgic feeling in the pit of your lungs that you use to call out to God and all you feel is empty 

People as abandoned grounds flooded with regrets, overflowing with goodbyes, tomorrow a distant memory

The abandoned temple as all the ways one can lose themselves in things, in people, in dreams, in ideas…

You are sacred even when no one sees

Worth a second look in a deserted land

You are home, the emptiness merely the silences bravery has to teach you to unlearn  Continue reading “The abandoned temple”