The Poetry Marathon

Marriage? Hour 4

He is not a man. 

I don’t like adding

 a possessive pronoun to an ex-person 

who held my life in prison

 I broke free. 

And I abhor any part of my history

 That’s connected to him

The hell and the heathen of his shadows

 

I cringe when I have to add ‘my’

To any part of speech that

 contains the traces of his

Dark dark fingerprints

 Even in disgust, 

I hate addressing

 the ex-person 

with a possessive pronoun.

 Something of mine

 is so intimate

 that I want none of his claws

to find it again. 

His very name 

can sully ‘my-ness’ of me

 I broke free 

of the prison he held of my life

Why then, 

Should I attach a possessive pronoun

 to that unknown

 unwanted X in my life?

Routine

Violins play from my phone

I breathe in time

I hate this part of the week

but this must be done

 

I disinfect the area

ready a second swab if needed

Pull the cap from the injection pen

and rest it on my thigh

 

I breathe in

grip soft fabric

and press down

healing fire fills my leg as I moan

 

I hold it down

count

then examine the leg

for bleeding from the injection site

 

I sit

stare

sigh

and dispose of the pen

unsilenced

The hatred U have for me makes no sense to me like it does to U

U don’t want me to know my history my herstory

bcz it is a telling of the evil deeds of U and yours

Yo mama, yo mama’s mama , yo mama’s mama mama

Yo daddy,  yo daddy’s daddys, yo daddy’s daddy daddy

U don’t want me 2know Yo daddy,  yo daddy’s daddys, yo daddy’s daddy daddy raped

My mama, my mama’s mama, my mama’s mama mama

U don’t want yo kids 2 know of your evil deeds

Yet Black history/herstory iz ameriKKKan history/herstory

So I will do all that I can to make sure my children’s children children will know the truth

And anyone else who will listen to learn

And then I will tell of our wonderful history/herstory and all  of the power that we  possess.

We will not be silenced by your nonsensical hatred

Temporary Residence

I am living in someone else’s house

Decorations meant to soothe

but sharp edges cut my consciousness

None of this is mine

and while I am here I must care for it

Doorknobs run on electricity

and cameras viewing the outside world

I will be glad to leave here

Hour 24 : Hope is not a word

Hope isn’t just 4 lettered word

It is beyond that.

It is uncertainty, affirmation, a mix of everything yet nothing.

I see hope in colours, in speeches, in pauses, in the eyes.

Maybe, 26 alphabets arent enough to describe it.

It opposes perfection yet surpasses ambiguity.

Not Who I Am – Hour 16

Wake up at five
brush teeth and hair
Slick it down
not an errant curl

Quick cup of coffee
time for a cherry poptart
feed my pups quickly
wishing for more time to play

Take the old jeep
to the depot station
Stand in line with strangers
study my notes for the day

Board a train with others like me
wishing to be somewhere else
Wondering if they also wished to be
someone else like me

The One in My Head

Sometimes I hear him

at the back of my mind

or I hear him

in an empty room

his hand inhabits mine

and guides me

to a calmer state

 

I see him in the mirror

when I look too quickly

and unguarded

his eyes are mine

staring back at me

 

I call on him sometimes

when I know I won’t be calm

he says the words I need to say

and makes them acceptable

then push him back 

while he stares at me

waiting for me to accept him

Hour 23 : Reading the Red

Hour 25 – at least, a haibun

I was constantly made to feel like I was a burden for existing. It’s not really my mother’s fault that this is the case. I was a burden for existing to her; I was not on purpose, I was not chosen, I was not selected, I was not carefully, intentionally, curated. That all came much later. When I can recognize the cycles she was a part of the cycles I was raised in and refused to stay in them.

 

If I had a dime

For each time I was ‘too much’

At least I’d be rich

Running

Running on empty.
Running out of time.
Always running,
rarely resting.

Now I’m running out of rhyme.