The Last Word

The Last Word

Lights illuminate this courtroom scene

and I am standing in the central artery,

translucent and immaterial to your reckless steps

as they walk straight through me.

But under oath the words will fail

to accept the lies you hope to spin from your lips;

those spoken but then denied

will testify to the tongue that shaped them

and the mind that orchestrated their sounds to escape

on the exhaled breath,

till all the jury hears is the jumbled letters you have left,

stubbornly scrambled like your sense of morality,

the judge orders a straitjacket to curb your corroding mentality.

And I can feel my mouth running back to me.

How They Make Us Mute

How They Make Us Mute

Trusting my own judgement

enough to learn to like

my outward appearance

is not easy when

you blame yourself

for the poor judgement

of another’s hands

and how they wouldn’t hurt you

and then tore your love

for your body

away from your body

from the outside in

and how it leaves you stuck

in a cycle of self torment

trying to forgive yourself for something

you didn’t do to yourself

but somehow allowed happen

but didn’t

till your own false sense of safety

deludes it’s better

to hate your body

for something another did to it

because look what happened

when you had the audacity

to like it.

Lexeme to Liberty

Lexeme to Liberty

The distant glow of landing lights

has always meant safety

for sneaky bedtime reading

and from terrifying bedtime monsters

turning playful dreams into crime scenes

before I had learnt enough words.

A book in my hand

titles ‘Do Not Disturb’:

I am too busy

escaping my reality

with my runaway imagination

to shape a sentence with sonancy,

learning new words

to replace those that brand me

in my attempt to make something fiction.

For every time

my words have been stripped from me

and I have forgotten

the way my tongue and teeth and lips

make a sound,

I will write them back

then I will speak them back

then watch me take them back

and knock. you. down.

What I Don’t Want You to Know About Me

What I Don’t Want You to Know About Me

Here’s what I don’t want you to know about me:

  1. I keep my eggs in a few baskets

so no one can break all of me at once.

  1. I’ll only ever hint at my monsters

to hide the fact they still jump out of my bed at any time.

And if you know about them they’ll haunt you too.

  1. You cannot unknow what I tell you

so I’ll probably not tell you much.

  1. I’d never grow cynical of love

but I’m cynical of you lasting

because life has taught me that most people leave.