swirling prolific hues of green envy and passionate reds imprints of individualized thumbprints echo the softness of her chest. her stained clothes, a memorial of shed blood and crusted tears. methodically, each stroke larger than the last. shaded memories dusted with charcoal. empty delights cross-etched in blended fingertips. the room, empty. a hollowed portrait fits in the solace in which the artist lives. systematic soul surrender. does she long to be the hidden message in impressionism, the genius of Rodin the talk of the Louvre, the troubled artist in which tragedy ends fulfilling afterlife in the thief of the night's kiss? brush stroke. pain supersedes heliotropes vision a circumcised catalytic imprison, raw theft of stolen pieces and framed genius lay hung, genius on a white wall. tip. tap. coarse fibers dance in shallow water mixing royal purples and optimistic yellows. her favorite color: black. it begs to be painted upon. desires to be another color, in another life- jea

Love was like a long stemmed scented rose- Until I found the thorns. It was the taste of fine wine Until the bitterness of the last sip was gone. Being as soft as fresh fallen snow Until the coldness reached upon me. It gave me the sweet melodies in my ear Until the one note made it unbearable to me. Giving me a Cloud 9 feeling Then I realized I had no wings Seeing beautiful places it could take me- Until I realized they were just scenes. Love is like a mask, Unveiled in a mystique Then you realized all the lovely gifts it gave you Were never, For Keeps. -b.r.rivera

(audio).   snaps fingers and aligns rhythms to the cool jazz which aligns the walls in this room.   ivory keys glistening, begging to be touched sheet-music dance to the notes and beats, clefs and unheard baritone.   smooth octaves ranging into unheard dimensions goosebumps prickling the heated skin of stage lights and amps powered by electricity.   glow.   she sings. a moment filled with Nina Simone and Billie Holiday of Strange Fruit and the Other Woman.   a hushed crowd awakened by systematic beats and warm breath kissing the microphone hips synchronized in rhythm as dim lights give birth to slow dancing.   hypnotic.   the effervescence of alcohol and tobacco fill the room, signs of swayed physiques and temples glistening with sweat. but she moves. moves still/enraptured and captured the moment of toothpicks hanging from full lips and pink blossom makeup blushed intertwined with cherry red lips.   desire.   epitome of craving and wanting the kind where empty stomachs are never fill

I cracked an empty vase today. Glass shards reflective in millions of pieces strewn over carpeted feet. crimson red droplets formed over angry tones and a now un-silenced room. he should be here by now. the clock ticks. tocks. seconds of agonizing minutes turn the large hand beckoning the small hand to lie, I am begging to disagree surely a sign of loneliness. tick. tock. petals. fragrance now turned into an uneasy smell of velvety red flowers bloomed too easily- a gentle reminder and sadistic pun of my life. sweet and kind that flowers are his apologies as words never found consonants and consonants never meet vowels and syllables across his tongue. he shouldve brought me forget-me-nots. tick. tock. great memory. gerber daisies are my first love, not roses. click. I run my thumb in one swipe against the hard case enveloped against the fluid to ignite my flame, menthol tobacco fills the air unescaped by closed windows. breathe in. inhalation. breathe out. exhalation. in. forgiveness. o

You are lethal to me. A slow poison Of contagious But slowly anxious Passionate lovin’ Is it a dream Or reality I’m muttering… You make me high You make me low You make me sing You make me moan I’m stuttering/staggering Move in me closer Deeper still Nothing else/ I’m wanting I desire you like ecstasy’s pill I desire you like My body needing a fix The way you move The way you sway You make me wanna Kiss your succulence But I can’t Your kiss is toxic Your love no/ logic And it saddens me to see How I dropped the crown off my head And make a weaker me. I can not love you. Even though I went deeper. Deeper than the ocean’s bliss Still waters run/ enclose me I can’t be your kiss You are lethal to me. Even though your touch is -Heavenly- Your voice -Gravitates- (me) I can not force myself to be Your original high By the way you Ascend me. Even though your stiffness Is the best upon my Clitoris- I can’t let you Get next to this Because my love is genuine And yours... just isn’t

Here lies customer service Tombsone engraved, "Not to Serve Us" What is this charge on my bill, I say? Death to overcharges day by day Ghosts riddled with surplus Now I find a way to clear my throat and cuss As she sits dead on the other line Popping gum to waste her time Oh, AT&T-buried in wireless Now my bill is a simple mess. -b.r.rivera

“Rescue Me” I don’t think death is a hard man to look at. Not a scary scythe carrying grim reaper wearing a dark robe reeking of fallen ashes and freshly dug dirt right now, he will look like an angel (to me) bright and with a long gown ever flowing whispering in my ear sweet Beverly, it’s time to come home and I will dive into his arms like a child who has missed her father. Because he is sweet welcoming to me like potato salad and fried chicken that my mom made especially for me to welcome me home after a long trip on the road. Right now, he is sweet and kind kissing me on my forehead And relieving me of my last breath Because I was too tired to do so. Too worn to even fill my lungs. Too weary to even think about the inhaling and exhaling the in and out of peaks and valleys He is my sweet dreams of what others called nightmares of monstrous boogeyman’s and unhopeful futures. Sweet song that I hear my last breath that I breathe He says sweet Beverly, it’s time to go home and in one sw

In his eyes, I am pure Goddess. Alcmene, the mother of Hercules strength and beauty designed and redefined to even at the end of life, I am worshipped. Within this biological being launching a thousand ships is comparable to the sway of my hips the verb of love. beyond the hedonistic pleasures of the flesh, I reign supreme- The mighty Aphrodite, adorned with white garments/crown of gold personified by Homer, an ancient tale to be told. I am Neith rage as a war goddess yet a weaver of dreams and silk from the gift of sight ...and as day kisses the sky goodbye As moon Goddess Artemis, I rule the night. Giving birth to crickets humming at summer's heat, dewy mornings and restful sleep- In his eyes, I am pure Goddess. Recognizing my name to be synonymous in the eternal womaness that even fellow Queen Maya internalized to be, "Phenomenal Woman" I am she. and in all fairness, I balance the scales of justice as Astrea blind to false tales, aligned with

my worth measured in honey thick thighs and swinging hips movement and magnetization within the males lick of the lips my worth calculated by Hershey kiss nipples and cleavage exposed (bounce) make ripples of human flesh re-defined and slow to climb corporate ladders and executive suits when brain matter and intelligence is comparable to the next man hidden sex whom calls my thinking "cute." my worth balanced in the tangible ankles adorned with jewelry nape of neck perfumed with the secret of Victoria, my waist accentuated surely with g-strings and thongs legs, high heels and ached feet beneath the the sculpted legs long my worth counted and scrutinized ass plentiful and mocha chocolate skin hypnotized rhythms of bass movement in music videos hair dancing off of beats as I am called a hoe. bitch please there has to be more than this to me i am more than the calculation definition measurable and comparison driven societal degree in which they see me i am woman. no cliche of he