5 Days.

5 Weaks

I light three candles,

lie down

and spread my thighs,

call upon your memory while I touch and rub,

await climax.

I envision your head between them -

lips on flesh,

fragrance on tongue.

Back arched and enough teasing to stop and restart my heart twice.

As I come down

I realize this is your legacy...

You have come and gone,

and left fantasies for me.

Thank you?

Road Trip Cont

I've packed my bottom lip,

too high slip,

sighs and quick wit.

My wide smile and carefree laugh,

and the cool side of the pillow

for the long way home.

Pack light.

Come Mourning

Yesterday I felt like a cup of coffee.

Like someone wanted me to put a pep in their step,

but didn't want me - black.

My taste too bitter.

So they've added three scoops of sugar and creamer to lighten me up.

Stirred as the spoon hits the edges of my cup...

Sipped me slowly and handled with care because I was hot,

neglected and left me to cool - microwaved me when I was not.

Yesterday I felt like coffee,

today I feel like tea.

Like healing, calm and comfort can exist inside of me.

*sips me*

Lonely or Alone

I've found the medium.

Kept enough things close to be able to tell

What space and choice,

Loneliness and solitude look like.

I've come to admire the spaces between my fingers

As much as I'd craved that of another to fill them.

It put into perspective-

A type of proper healing etiquette.

That part.

Hands

Time has treated me gently.

It's promised to tell all and heal should I allow it.

It's hands,

are my fathers.

Firm and safe,

I've doubted them both-

but still know where to run when it hurts.

I find safety and assurance in fathers hands

but it is the antiseptic of patience and self love that consistently

heals what cracks and bends,

affirms the sun rises in my own garden,

and reminds I need no one else to water me.

I am the lover I seek.

The Martyr Organ

What is it about the woman

that fills her with such resilient martyrdom?

Why do cold shoulders,locked doors and projects feel like home,

but open hearts and safe houses seem like plots to break us?

Why do we ignore what actually does?

--

I'd like to locate the space it's hiding,

the organ which deems me less worthy of happiness and satisfaction.

That one that made the choice to stay when the flags were so red they burned blue,

the one that'd convinced me love should hurt too...

Id like to find it,

carve it out,

hand it to you.

Won't you frame it for me?

I have come to believe that in matters of love, one will always shed more blood.

Brand New

I don't want to do,

The things I used to do,

With you.

I owe it to myself to allow falling again,

To feel brand new.

I deserve the pieces of me back.

Occupying those spaces should feel as new as the first time,

But they are tainted territories.

They remind me of how fragile things can be,

And embed promises broken into my memory.

Etched warning signs upon my skin,

Don't go there.

Whispers and shadows hide in corners,

Mistakes and too many empty apologies.

Give this back to me.

In the mean time I will find shelter,

For the sake of serenity.

What does home look like?

Shedding Skin

I chose me every time I pack a bag,

I am a conqueror of foreign lands,

the ones I discover inside of me while exploring are my favorite.

I am strong, every time I rest my head a place

that does not feel like home for the sake of the one I hope to build.

I have found revolution in shedding skin on new territories

and walking away a new woman.

I am a revolutionary.