Author: poetryfest

I turned off the key,
for there I could see.
Not the bright light,
but the dark night.
As far as i could see,
the stars twinkled happily.
I opened the spout,
the water began guzzling out. I slouched down and began to think.
But when i think,
it spreads a little too deep.
Like how come no one wants me around?
Nobody sees me,
not even in a crowd.
I take a breath,
while the cold, fresh air fills my lungs.
I cross my arms and stair,
cuss i felt free that no one was there.
Just the stars and I.
My face began to chill,
but my hoodie kept me from getting ill.
I thought again,
I got bikes,
i got cows,
but still no one keeps me around.
It’s happened before
and probably happen again.
But i keep trying
again and again.
The water begin to drissile,
which meant it was time,
to go home,
until tomorrow,
until next time

Her heart was so pure
she even loved the devil
As a little girl
she was a fucking rebel
Stab after stab
She was served injustice and belittled
Little did they know
She was protected by the cosmos
Karma is a real thing
It’s something like a figure-8
You see, what energy you give out
Is what energy you will get back
So many wonder how she’s still standing
How she’s still managing
Why didn’t she fall?
That’s because she’s built like a mother-fucking brick wall
She will never fall
She only knows how to stand up tall
Who knew somebody so small could be so strong
Her heart was so pure
That after all the bullshit
She still wished the best life for y’all
All y’all were doing was praying on her downfall

my country was stolen
and so was I
so many times
I don’t even know how to talk
what’s the use of my mother tongue
if the colonizers won’t know how to read
me screaming
what’s the use of being a mother
if the men won’t know how
to pay heed
Tupi is the voice of the original people
of my land
there were trees and tales and gods
thriving here way before
you baptized us for death
with your holy name
Tupinambá is who I should
have been taught
to be at school
Tupi is the word that the european caravel
burnt down with sickness
Tupi is the red color of the fruit urucum
that painted our faces when they arrived
armed with greed
Tupi is the blood that was left
after they raped
our spiritual path
they say we were discovered
but they were the ones lost at water
my country was executed in a
morphological slaughter
with false mirrors, the white man erased
the beauty of our faces
with false promises, the white man whipped away
our ways to survive
I use the invader’s letters
out of despite
to take back our divinity
my country was stolen
so they tried to do the same with my soul
and yet
I stand here
still Tupi
even in silence

You faded the other day,
like light in Eire’s west,
retiring from beating time,
sun and sweat, closing in shutters
making a mess of bed clothes.

These were the bookshelves we left
unorganized, the tattooed skin I
couldn’t interpret, absent-minded that
I was back then.

I was innocent of it, nursing
grief wounds that came
unhealed, scabrous in time,
that you had helped sew up
lick clean, dress in
silk covering.

And how playful we were, naked,
unashamed, frolicking through
meadows, melodious, without care
for cuts a branch bramble
would give to those not
heeding.

I fell too easily then, coarse
feet against night air and
grass stain; that the trick
mirror had revealed all
was worsened from wear.

As your form turned void,
shapeless then unholy, I wept:

thinking of how we would never
again be so close to our
Garden, always so distant
from Grace, in glass highways

endless stone arches.

One lit before the other—
Ashes spread through the wind
And on concrete
Two lovers
Two cigarettes
Two months—come and gone
Quickly left with the season change
As he finished his
She finished hers
He finished with her
They both washed away
With the gusty winter winds

Forgotten and left on the balcony
Along with their memory—
Only the remains of
The cigarettes

March 4th, 2023
Dearest Recovery,
From the moment I met your eyes, on the fourth of March, I felt mine shine a little brighter. We’ve
known each other for a decade. We’ve been enemies, we’ve had angry love, and you’ve forced me into
impossible corners. In the end, I knew we would fall in love, again. I knew I would come to my senses,
my self.

April 3rd, 2023
Dearest Recovery,

Our first month together was not so foreign, we had fucked around before, you had touched my stomach,
and I had eaten your cooking. It wasn’t about learning with you, for we both knew the rules and
regulations. See you three times a day, and don’t throw up after. Loving you after a month is the hardest
part, especially this month, the holiest one, I can’t fast, I can’t excuse my hatred of you on religion. It’s
the part I kept screwing up way back when.

May 12th, 2023
Dearest Recovery,

We’ve kept it going, you kept me safe and warm, and I’ve stayed alive on your behalf. I remember
fighting with my mom about you. I had to prove I loved you, because she could see how my hand was
weak in your hold. I remember when I kissed you, to show her that we were serious. It was with pasta,
and I love pasta. I love you a little bit more, even.

July 4th, 2023
Dearest Recovery,

Four months, where did that come from? When did you become so routine to me? When has it just been
you and me, wake up, kiss, go to school, kiss again, fall asleep in your arms, filled. My life is easier with
you in it, and that makes me so happy, and yet so afraid, because you come with requirements. I require to
love you to be happy, I am required to behave.

August 10th, 2023
Dearest Recovery,

We fought, and it was a big one. I was studying, fine, I was up late, fine, but you had to be there too.
You’re exhausting to maintain sometimes, even when you are routine. Sometimes, it’s easier to skip our
dates, easier to pick at my skin. But you know better, somehow. You rub my thighs raw when you see
them, “Perfect” you say, “Smooth” you hum, “Loved” you imply. We had sex after that, and then I passed
my finals the next day.

August 30th, 2023
Dearest Recovery,

Living with you is odd, we come up with habits without realizing they are habits. Tea is our safety, every
morning we’ve had it. If we love each other, we drink tea. If we hate each other, we drink tea. We go out
only with friends a lot, because my family asks too many questions. They want us to thrive, yet wait to
see us fall. They couldn’t imagine us getting along so well for so long. Yet every morning, my mom
offers us green tea anyway, out of hope for us, out of love, too.

September 18th, 2023
Dearest Recovery,

I moved away. You follow me, of course. There’s hills here now, and foreign individuals,
and other people’s cooking. You can’t cook anymore, but you offer suggestions, I take them with grace.
You choose not to buy a scale for the bathroom we share, and that’s probably for the better. Things are
good here, I feel like I can truly love you here without eyes. Nobody knows we’re dating, so for now, let’s
just keep them in the dark. Let’s keep this as ours.

November 4th, 2023
Dearest Recovery,

Eight months in, I’m finding it hard to keep in touch, because we are only but a secret. Staying low is
hard, people keep saying “Go fuck some rando, you’re young!” but I am in love with you! How do I tell
them that when they force my hand? It’ll only end with that hand in my mouth, in a toilet, in agony, in
divorce. I can’t keep you hidden forever, I can’t keep this distance. I’m too wound up in your arms to let
go. I told my LA friend about us, she told me she likes you vibe.

January 1st, 2024
Dearest Recovery,

We went back to our hometown, You get praised, I get called different. People here know you, know who
I was before you. I’ve tried to reconcile with that, with before I. I don’t love her like I love you, I can’t
love her, but I think I need to, because I love what you love, and you love her, regardless. When people
ask if I am doing well, I tell them about my work first. When they ask about you, I let you speak for
yourself.

March 4th, 2024
Dearest Recovery,

A year ago today, we found each other again. I was in a hospital gown, you, a suit and tie. I do love you
dearly, even when I yell. I do love the way you hold me, the way you fall on my figure. I do love your
cooking, the pasta is the best. I do want to marry you, I never want to leave your side. I do, I do, I do.
We shall cheers with a cup of tea. Congrats, to one year of Me and Recovery!

Sincerely,
our one year

A spoonful of honey and a glass of water
Follows the single gulp of Cyclopam
To put a gag on the gag
“Another month off the life chart”
Strips of bitterness since two thousand-six
Aunt Flo doesn’t give a damn
Just as my OB/GYNs
“You have to live with it”
“Manage with medications”
You aren’t special
This is every woman’s problem
Kindly suffer in silence. Thank you.
Hatred gives purpose
We start all over again, the new gyno & I
First base with speculum and
TVS for the third
“Having a child might probably help”
Emphasis on “probably” here.
“Double Income No Kids?
You deserve this!”,
Society chimes in now and then
My boss is too empowered
“Only the meek ones
seek paid period leaves”, she blasts.
Hormonal pills just pretend
to smooth my frayed nerves
And to boost the will to carry on
“We need more research into this!”,
the Keyboard Warriors fume.
While the laws of the world
are being rewritten
to control a woman’s body,
Inside the bathroom stalls,
tired of combat in
the eternal war that is womanhood,
My helpless self
sobs in silence wondering
Isn’t the present scary?
More than the past or future?

What is the world but against a women’s freedom,
Is this all a game settled before it began,
Have all the tricks been ready to play,
The cameras ready to catch us as we ran away,
Run from who, was he not just a boy?,
But all the same, he made the choices of a man,
Was I not just a girl, no more than a child,
Taught the ugly truth of humanity,
Surviving a barely viable way,
Yet no one else stood near to cradle my hand,
A systematic readiness to point away from the liable,
Am I so unlike a human too.
Will I tell these sweet stories to another one day,
Fill a head with lies so far and wrong,
Will I lie for a son, lying down to pray,
Watch as a young girls light begins wane,
Will I protect for a man, whilst my own I leave behind,
I only begin to hope escape wont be too late.

We arranged a deal. I was there to fulfill a duty and I was using you to add another experience in my life. Only to fear the act. Too scared. You held me and said that me being so vulnerable was better. (I told a friend about this later, and she called it disturbing). I loved your girl more than you- I probably would’ve been brave for you. You mad and say that the therapist agreed with you. I told you to fuck yourself and I only asked that she say something. She didn’t. She fled. I never been so glad at my overreaction before. (Even if the apathetic Internet typers agree it sucks). The worst part isn’t the pain but the embarrassment. No more men, but I’ll do a lady anytime.

waiting for the last train
black trench coat over black culottes
swinging above bare ankles
tucked into black docs against a smog-greyed night

leaning matrix-style against a post

unmoved

by gusts from passing trains
and homeward-stumbling drunks

she’s a midnight trifle: black on black on black

bob bouncing – a shock of orange
it’s washed out: faded as a watercolour sunset
or summer fruits boba milk tea
it’s the brightest thing at the station

she makes herself brighter by tucking into a satsuma
unravelling
a perfect spiral
of peel
like a black widow spinning a web

the last train pulls in
dragging clouds
she discards her peel on the platform
and disappears through green doors

oh crap that train was also yours