If These Walls Could Talk

I buried myself so deeply within her bosom
until I forgot myself.
Silhouettes of my past,
plastered like brittle wallpaper
over the closet of my conscience–
a claustrophobic space
scented with lavender and soured pride.


“I gave you all you needed!”
Exasperated, he flung his hands up in surrender
and searched her face.
Her calm demeanor startled him.
Her voice, quiet yet firm, seized his entirety.

Bad Love

Don’t love me.
Because loving me is pain. No, torture.
Like that awful gut-wrenching feeling you get when you receive bad news
that makes you curl up in bed for three days without eating and
afterwards you emerge hobbled in a stale t-shirt plastered to your chest
from tears and your hair matted to your scalp from restless thoughts.
This is what it is like to love me—to hate yourself.


You bruised my mother’s womb
though she gave you her nectar.
You made a throne from the carcasses of my ancestors.
You made me a bastard
while forcing me to call you father.
Now, you slaughter my brothers
and expect me to stay silent.