Dear John

Hatred is motivation or so history has told us. But hatred is beautiful and hatred is evil and hatred is funneled into a woman as an incentive for her oppression or so history has taught us. Pandora's box was actually a jar. Cleopatra died of suicide, not in the hands of men. And men. Yes men, played broken telephone until the telephone was no longer a cord, but a leash to keep women from repeating the same history claimed to be the fault of women; grab her wrist, so she can't open the door to Hell. Make her believe her shadow is her best friend. Dismiss the fact that he himself locked her in that cave, but not to worry because she started the fire and she made friends with the ghosts in her head. It's scary when two enemies lock eyes because desire is blurred in the lines of the past. There is an affinity locked within the predisposition of their genetics that can never unlock the keys of their handcuffs. And with the many types of women in this world, there are a few type

“I crushed a monarch midflight / just to know how it felt / to have   something   change / in my hands”     Excerpt From: Ocean  Vuong. “Night Sky with Exit Wounds"  Buenas,  ¿Como estas? Perdon que no te he podido hablar- he estado soñando. Con el tiempo que pasa, me he dado cuenta que nunca me voy a levantar. Tal vez es el ritmo de tu esperanzas que me tiene dormida and dreaming/ I can only sing to you about my fears/ how one winter morning/ I cherished your voice/ singing happy birthday to me/ how the next/ the only voice heard was mine/ screaming for you to just take one more breath/ sing me goodbye/ while you lay next to me/ my sweet screams reaching the heavens/ where your song once set its path/ now your soul sits in front of a panel of judges/ I crushed your hand/ 3 squeezes I love you/ fingers intertwined, please squeeze back/ I need to remember how it felt/ when your sweaty palms warmed my ever so cold hands/ now it is your hands that are cold, and the sweat of my palms

  there are moments in my life when i think im going to die where i look up at the sky  and realize that the sun  will always be the same  in some relative way  but  i will get older  shorter of breath one minute closer to death in those moments, i count how many people I've ever loved  i wonder if they'll count me into the number of tragedies that ruined their day next to their spilt coffees and paper cuts  i think about how in these moments,  my thoughts are worth more than a dime  agitation and trepidation  all i've ever touched,  all i've ever seen, this is all my life would have ever been  impactful lives are a cliche  when the world ends, people won't remember Marlyn Monroe or Barack Obama   they'll remember Gd, taxes, and vodka  in these moments,  my problems will fade away  maybe heaven and hell are the same  my sins wont be used in my eulogy  my good deeds will be forgotten with my smile Gd as my witness  I have these moments where I think I'm going

i don't know why i let you in  compliments sliding off the body of a violin you knew how to play each note with perfection  but those notes were never meant for me  the moon was playing a trick on me  the discharge of the gun is never worth the recoil and now the night stars in the sky remind me of my exit wounds slowly bleeding out  per aspera ad astra this was never supposed to happen  i tried reaching the stars  building the Tower of Babel  but you took it down stone by stone my universe, you would say why reach for the stars when you are the sun?  i have no right to be angry, really heartbreak is virtueless in the eyes of unrequited love  but i am after all, the blind cannot tell the difference between a blackhole and a star  now the curtains have closed  and the sonnet has ended in a dramatic couplet  about an ethereal situation that turned out to be just a fantasy  a poetic figment living in the mind of the moon

  how will the sky look when i die will it be grey with dismay that it lost another soul or happy another cloud has joined will there be tears in my eyes  or the sky's will the stars dance with delight  at the restless, hopeless, careless life that left muddy footprints on the rocks of central park will the wind blow the trees into one smooth motion of jete  i hope their pedals die with me an ode to my life that was in some way part of theirs' will the atmosphere be easy to breath, cause dry, frozen breathes to be sucked in from the nose  and released with a minty sigh  or will the atmosphere be heavy and humid  with sweat building, heart pounding air  that punches you in the lung with each breath who are you betting on that night?  headlines screaming my life vs my faith will the ambulance scream my name in hopes of my survival whisper of my conjugated memory    suspicion and disposition  will the sky question my nobility  or question the reliability of my autopsy report  i ho

taxi driver  be my shrink for the hour it's rush hour  so take the express lane if you need to  roll up the windows  before they see the tears roll down my face a child should never see their father cry lock the doors  so they can't get in  drive faster  my demons can't win this race  I can't trust anyone  bleach in my beer bottle  You say, "Let it all out" But the meter's running  and the windows are closed and the doors are locked and the cyanide is choking me up  "Just outrun the demons, could you?" You drive faster  there's a roadblock am I flying or is this just the high  You break the windshield  I hit the ground My confidant, am I allowed to cry? A mix of my blood and tears cause a flood on I95  Boys don't cry  Now I see why