i am always shocked that slowly,
i’m turning into a sad flower.
the things that should keep me alive
are the same things masterminding
my body to egress my name.
i sit out oftentimes under the drunk clouds
counting the wild teeth of the sun that comes
with mutilated metaphors, withered photographs & sad clapping
maybe i shouldn’t trust anymore the strides
of my instinct—drenched specimen of me
that cannot pause the swirling toes of this pains,
or probably i should learn to teach
my tongue how to glorify sadness.
Lord, will i ever embrace the testament of healing? the night comes
but it leaves me with shivering arms that crucified
itself to swollen pillows like dried plantain leaves
i have seen what scars look like—something like a rusty communion cup
that leaves me death in solitude with lugging memories
shrugging on me like an housefly’s wing
& birth a poet into a wild prayer burning
with scattered tendrils of words that may soon evaporate
to become another requiem.




Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash