This is How I Love You

And this is how our hearts beat:
Calypso,
pull me under Gulf of Mexico;
Staccato pulses and rum fueled rhythm.

And this is how the blood rushes:
Classical,
Mozart smiling &
Vivaldi clapping &
Beethoven begging for crescendo.

This is how our fists curl:
Thunder,
roll me over, lightning weaver,
shadows reflecting fear over both
the hills & the valleys:
hurricane & tremors.

But this, this is how time stops:
Soft,
rain water,
lips meeting lips 
like drops kissing tin
roofs—-
I am a fortress you always 
break me down.

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When You Come to Worship

Peel me back,
let the choirs clean the dust from my lungs
if only so I can exhale a 
hallelujah.

Turn my body into hymnal and run your fingers free form over the notes.
I want to be more than a crescendo.

Make sure the light reflects the stain glass rainbows on my pages.
Make sure I am held like lamb,
but revered as lion.

Hear the choir sing:
“Kingdom come,
kingdom come.”

Let your mind roll under the pews like lovesick children.
Let your knees crack the prayer bench.
Let my tongue be your altar,
and I will gently
throw you down.

An echoing aria,
Holy Ghost, God, and Son.
Hail Mary when she recites the only abiding truth written for the likes of us:
we
are more than than holy,
we
are the life blood.

Monsoon Season

This is how it happens:
It is two AM,
and we are texting,
and you are begging,
letting me fall asleep with the word
“Please” tattooed against the inside
of my eyelids until my breathing is in sync with
pleading
and Justin Timberlake’s voice slices through the dark
and I bolt up, hearing you saying “Hello?”

Tonight,
you will find yourself in a mass of bodies,
sharing sweat and skin and lips
with girls who don’t even know your last name.
With girls who don’t know the same way
your mouth wraps around a bottle,
or how it twisted with grief in the early fall;
when the outward wailing
failed to match the hurricane in your lungs
as the tornado ripped your spine
to shreds,
only to have the blood
flash flood through your body
all practically in silence,
all not drowning out the sound of your misery.

This is how it happens:
“First rule of Fight Club:
don’t talk about Fight Club.”
I have never laughed so much at three AM
on the phone with some boy
who is begging me to be a warm body in his bed.
And I am whining and you are sighing,
because there is no
“logical reason”
I am not in my car, driving to you,
as the minutes roll toward four,
instead of my body rolling toward you,
because I am only beautiful as ball of
sweat and skin and lips.

Tonight,
don’t drive unless you’re sober.
Tonight let your eyes reflect the lights
of a dying shore side,
grasping whoever’s hand is naive
and whose palm is not sweaty.
Do not lose yourself to the bankruptcy,
but rather to each delectable instance.
Do not lose yourself to the sound of the sea
because it echoes those nights
where you were six bottles in,
fifty sobs out,
spine broken,
lungs soaked,
and soul drowning.

And I won’t lose myself when you don’t respond
and it’s once again two AM,
but my phone’s not ringing.

The ‘New’ Side Chick: I Was Her

Real talk

Miss T. N. king

A side chick is commonly known as a mistress or a woman that’s romantically involved with a man who is in a committed relationship.  However after doing some reflecting, I realize that’s not the only type of side chick.  I want to discuss “the new side chick”–a woman who decides to stay by a man’s side after he has expressed his lack of relationship intentions with her through his words or actions.  So many women have made this mistake at least once in their lifetime, and unfortunately I’ve done the same thing.

I like to think of the new side chick as an appetizer.  You’re there just to satisfy the immediate appetite of the man, but as soon as that mouth-watering entrée comes out to the table, you will get pushed to the side, literally.  Why?  Because that entrée is what he really wanted; he went to the restaurant to…

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Quake into Me

And if we were to make something
as sacred as love,
as scarring as touch,
in Bulgaria,
under The Eyes of God,
I would still pray that I shook.

I would beg the rocks to fall down on me
and the moon to make the gold in my skin
gleam like silk
and that everything:
my nails in your back,
your face in my neck,
our limbs twisted and tangled together,
while our backs were arched in worship,
would cry
holy,
holy,
holy.

I would want the cave to break
and bend in a sharp line,
just so I could see God smile down at me.
I would open my eyes 
to meet the blue of the night sky,
feel my lover’s heart beat in time,
know that what’s made will last,
and that his lust has filled me
wholly,
wholly,
wholly.

Why Do I Bother

There’s something to be said in the way
that we all want to feel
like we warrant a response.

That maybe that’s why we don’t ask for the honest.
That maybe we focus on lust than harness
a feeling where it’s more likely to fall than
fly.
I
Think pain comes from getting my hopes too high—
not from the fingers who never even bother to reach.

And you swim in an ideal so long,
that even when goes go as you expected,
something inside of you, dries up, let’s the wind carry it through the waves until it’s sun beaten and beached.

I guess,
there’s nothing to be said of us,
but rather of me;
hurting over something as little as a sad response
and a house that passed through the day,
empty.