They say…


goblinsbride

They say you took away my heart;
I say you’ve taken my feet,
Piece by piece the bottom part,
The skin that touch the ground –
My sole!

I can no longer land;
I can only hover.
Flesh too raw
too hurt
to touch
to stand.
Funny how I hover and shift
I can no longer put weight
on anything.

In a crowded room
I cannot stand
I cannot reach a soul
Was it just my feet you took, my love?
Alas, you took my hands!

I cannot reach, I can only grope.
I cannot touch, I can only burn.
I walk and all that’s read are marks,
No hope for my return.

They say you took away my heart.
Why have I none left
to give out?

Precious


rose

Precious
a poem

I could have made myself precious:
salons every fortnight,
facials every month,
a bag for every outfit,
a wardrobe every season.

I could have made myself more … pleasing:
trimmer waist,
stick straight shiny hair,
a generous smile,
a witty little brain.

Instead of straightening my hair,
I chose to show every kink, every wave,
all the sharp curves of my brain.
Instead of slimming down my waist,
I chose to gorge on life joys and pains.
I chose to suck on the teat of life –
I imbibed. Too late to realize
That a thick waist will not keep a man
from holding me – or holding me back,
from completely embracing me – or completely crushing my breath.

I could have made myself precious:
Stone-cold marble skin
touched only by the highest bidder,
hands so light, I’d have flown away at the slightest slight,
a jewel, a treasure, a rare coveted delight.

I could have made myself slimmer.
Having more of me meant
more to give away,
more to lose,
more of me spread out on the table.

I could have been precious
but I let you touch.
I could have been precious
but I let you in.
I could have been precious
but I let you partake.

Yet, I can’t really be precious.
I’m not the type of girl that people like
or men fall in love with.

Hell, I know I’m not precious.
Was I too easy?
Did I give too much of me?
I could have made myself precious to you.

Playing Sarah


When I was eight,
my cousins would make me play Sarah
so they could Lavinia me into rags
in our gumamela, dirt, and plastic kitchens.
But that didn’t matter because
I wouldn’t play Sarah with them again.

When I was sixteen,
my classmates all handed me their
black cards
at the senior class retreat because I was so “mysterious”
But that didn’t matter because
they had an after-party
and I went home.

When I was eighteen,
I lost my sight, holding the hands of a boy
I could see him
but I could hear everyone.
None of that mattered
because I pushed him away
and never saw him again.

When I was twenty-six,
I lost my voice at work, stupidly shouting,
“I have a solution!” “I fucking matter!”
But none of that mattered
because they had drinks after work
and I went home.

When I was thirty,
I lost my face
because I am cocky, vain, boring, and weird.
I serve up sour wine
because I wouldn’t
I couldn’t
play Sarah ever again.

But none of that matters
because through this thicket of spines,
the thickest of walls,
the spiciest of tongues,
the sharpest of eyerolls,
There were the aunts who aunt-kissed my face over and over
because they haven’t seen me in ages “How did you get so big, hija?”
There was the friend who would stay on the phone on a school night
just to listen.
There was the prof who would ask me about my work schedule,
“Make sure to get some sleep, hija.”
There was the boss who gave me time off
so I could take the board exams “Go get the top notch, hija.”
There is the man who would learn how to make soup
because my throat hurt.
There is the friend who would ride an hour more
just to have tea with me.

And for them, I would gladly play
a Sarah,
a Becky,
or even an Eowyn.