A Nightmare

You have your grandmas face

it’s beautiful

And haunting

Like your shadow

Betraying you in the dark

Like a tree

Transformed into an illusion

When the moon shares its light

Sometimes when you laugh

Her chin appears on your face

And it scares me

Cause her blood is in you

Deep red with a veiled purpose

My sweet girl

With your grandmas blood

That craves for a monster.

A nightmare.

M.G.B

Your lips

Look like something I could float on

And when u laugh

That dimple winks at me

As if it knows I’m waiting for it

And if I’m close enough

I can hear your heartbeat

A rhythmic melody

A Smooth and consistent lullaby.

And your hands

Textured and thoughtful

Creeping up my thigh

Just enough to get warm.

I let them stay there long enough

And then I push them to their destination.

So you can explore me in detail

And turn me into a poem.

Titans Hand

I feel myself crumbling

By force

Of a weight that feels like a titans hand

By a burden I’ve given myself

I am atlas.

I watch myself

In the mirror

And there’s questions in my eyes

I am too embarrassed to answer

Even when I’m alone

I’m insincere.

I cry.

A haunting low wail.

Quiet enough to mean something

Not loud enough to share.

I hold my knees as tight as I can

This is how I keep it together.

Stars Are The Cure For Insomnia

I stare longingly at the stars

Head tilted up

Like a soft hand reminding me of who I am

A thought

Travels to Vega

The asterisms above

Everything is too big for me to answer correctly

But I try

I cloud my head with pulsating thoughts of luminosity and light years

Away from things that tie me to insomnia

Things that chain me to tomorrow

they suffocate me.

I toss and turn

A restless soul.

I escape to the night

And find myself in a constellation.

A cancer.

I think of Jovian planets

And methane rain

canabalistic galaxies.

I think of tornadoes that could consume earth

Sibling stars that never leave each other’s side

And everything

Seems so

Small.

As I sleep.

Disconnected.

I categorize my habits

And rituals

Tone of voice and name

Second-hand characteristics that were given to me piecemeal

By a woman from Connecticut

And a woman from Georgia.

From a place we assume she called home.

But we say she must not be from there.

 

I can I live in this place

Be born in it

And not be allowed here.

 

But where I am now

In between two worlds.

The duality stretches me from left and right

Pulling at me

Makes me uncomfortable when I contemplate having to choose one

I don’t know Africa.

I have never been.

I was born here. I am not proud of it.

Who should be?