No one looks at her anymore.
She sits dazed and confused amongst
Cheap berber grey rugs and atop
creaking weight given mattresses calling out to many
waiting to be blessed with hands
that would embrace and enclose warmth
To pop her cherry and
de-virginize the white cleanliness of crispness
freshness and new lovers' forgiveness
Forgiveness is she
How could it be that
I was once her first love and she was mine
Inseparable. Clung hip to hip and smiling
back at me, comfort in the middle of
sleepless nights and thoughts to hold on to
I whispered sweet nothings and dreams
reserved for magical places, deep dimensions
and untold stories
New hearts new beginnings/ first loves/ joy pains
and historical monuments that
birthed the life into my nostrils
Breathed air into my lungs and
rose oxygen unto my chest/ allowed
exhalation and respiration. My second heartbeat.
I breathed once for her
but she lays by the wastelands reaching
out to me, calling my name
A flood that has risen from story
thoughts and madness
I didn't throw the life jacket
Allowed her to drown.
In the depths of murky brown graves
Coldness engulfs her
She was laid to rest by Blessed Assurances
cheap carnations tearful eyes and baby's breath
She is gone.
But calls me still.
I hear that beat in her chest
A tap of the batted eyelashes, a lick of
the lips, a stir of bones and muscle
too long, ignored blatantly of disrespect
she is born again and walks the resurrection
of soul-connection seeking vital truths
of blatant lies she wants my redemption
and to all that have kissed the sleepiness in her
No one looks at her.
I purposefully and meticulously lay her out
vulnerable, mesmerizing and catching to the eye
Do they not want to understand
The soul of my cry?
I have ignored her
But now as I write on her captivating
pages, as she extracts this I realize and see
That poetry is her
The (nakedness) of me.