Author: poetryfest

Pourquoi, mon ami?

Because I don’t speak
it well enough.
Crying into my textbook
because I know I’m going to fail
my oral exam tomorrow, reminds me
of how I cried into my cousin’s
open coffin.

He killed himself.

And I think about how
the letter ‘r’ is jagged
and gets caught
in the back of my throat like a tack,
clogging my air on its way out.
Locking the French in my mind and
keeping me from ever speaking at all.

Pas d’anglais.

Pas de langue.

I sleep, and in my dream
I try to loosen
the bloodied chain slicing
into my neck on all sides, but I can’t
reach my arms above my waist.
They are tied down by the weight
of my dead. By the weight
of language—or lack thereof.

Demander de l’aide.

I wish I could but the words
are too heavy for me to spit
out. They burn holes
in my throat,
in my heart,
in my brain.

And Madame Bowley only allows
French in class so I can’t even begin
to ask for some extra time or
help because I don’t know how
to say any of that. I don’t know how to
tell her that I found my father dead
a while back, or that my cousin shot
himself in the head a few Tuesdays ago,
because the past tense is too advanced

A sea of people
around me, and
yet I have never
felt so alone.

Everyone keeps
surviving, as if,
my entire world
is not crumbling
before me.

How do I live
in the rubble,
where you no
longer exist?

A sea of people
around me,
and I am
drowning,

but everyone
knows I can
swim.

Air escapes
my lungs.
Water fills
within.

A weight so
heavy on my
sternum; I
am sure it
will fracture.

No one
save me.
I want to see
you again.

[About this poem: A seasonal love poem exploring bodily warmth, intimacy, and emotional quiet.]

That midsummer, we clung and rubbed close,
body heat sparked mosquitoes to a blaze—
not burned to ash, yet breathless, dazed.

This winter, rain drizzles soft and slow,
our hands entwine, you cradle my fall
in your supple warmth and tender glow.

No words are needed to span this expanse—
silence stretches, we meet in its trance.

I woke up dead today.
I woke up with
my eyes still closed,
my heart was barely beating,
my thoughts were
darker than night,
and I could not
feel my face.

I felt like a living
corpse trying to breathe
with no lungs,
because I was tired of
all the pain that had come
and chased my dreams away.
I woke up dead today.

I woke up wanting
to die today.
My blues had consumed me.
My hurt had engulfed me
in a thousand tears,
enough to fill the Black Sea.
There was a darkness
that had come over me.
I woke up wanting to scream,
but could only moan
from feeling all alone.
Depression had settled
in my chest,
right next to my heart,
and made an enemy of
the love that I had for myself.
I woke up dead today.

I barely slept the
night before, but
somehow my physical
was able to endure,
just long enough for
the moon to set and
the sun to rise.
But not without the
need to cry and
oh, how I cried.
I wailed for all the
times I stayed strong and
no one knew deep inside
I was gone.
I poured out droplets
of abandonment, disappointment abuse and broken promises.
A merry go round
of again and again.
I cried until I wanted to die.
I was on the verge
of suicide,
but then I realized

I woke up today,
without an alarm,
in a warm bed,
my household unharmed…
somehow through all the good.

My father would have turned 65 today. There are no words to describe the unfathomable losses, a man dying when his newborn daughter is 4 months old. If you know me, you know that my depths traverse the expanse of the universe… this is because I have spent my 34 years searching for the man who made me, only to feel him closest in the darkness of the starry Heavens above. Outliving your parents is normal. Outliving your parents by the time you are 30 makes for a pretty interesting ride. Knowing that this all comes to an end truly makes me live a life that is of utmost satisfaction to me. There are no rules, there are no boundaries, life is limitless and I take each bold step towards my own personal freedom with the support of the Divine. I am the ultimate creator and director of my own life and with so, so many angels on my side watching out for and guiding me I undoubtedly find my way. I spent the longest time being sad and thinking that I had been the one who suffered the greatest loss but this past year has shown me a life blazing so brightly that I now realize that we are equals- he lost out on watching me grow and evolve into the woman I am today as much as I missed out on having.. whatever it means to have a father. Where have these bold steps and blazing light led to? Right back into the depths. And what do I do with my power, my gift, my intimate knowledge of the Divine thread that shimmers through each and every one of us? Naturally, of course, I share it.. I share this knowledge with anyone who seeks it. I spend my days connecting people into the depths, into the Divinity within themselves. Whatever feelings, emotions, thoughts that come up are all valid, are
all part of this experience of life and as someone who has made the plunge into some pretty dark and scary places, I can tell you first hand that the only thing on the other side is light. So be not afraid of your depths, they have oh so much to teach you, if only you are willing to listen. If you need an ear, if you need a hand, ask and you shall receive. 65 would be a milestone for the living. 65 is a milestone for my dead because on this day I can finally say with a full heart… Rest in Peace

They ask,
Why Pride?
Why march?
Why color the streets with rainbows and song?
Why the need for special days,
for parades that dance and echo long?

They do not see
the lockers slammed,
the whispers sharp like knives in halls.
They do not hear
the silences that follow
when a child finally dares to speak
their truth —
and loses home, and love, and peace.

They ask,
Why not straight pride?
But they’ve never had to hide.
Never had to beg a parent
to still be called their child.
Never been told their love is a phase,
a sin,
a sickness to be prayed away.

We still bury our young
whose hearts could not bear
the weight of being different.
Still see kids sleeping on sidewalks
because they were too brave to lie.
Still see men
in the shadows of hospitals
fading
because no one marched soon enough.

And so —
we march.

We stand not for privilege,
but for presence.
Not for attention,
but for existence.
We are not your invisible inconvenience.
We are breathing.
We are becoming.
We are here.

So yes,
we will be loud.
We will be proud.
Because silence left too many in graves
before their time.
Because every young soul
who doubts their worth
deserves a world that says,
You belong.

And if you want straight pride —
throw a parade.
We’ll cheer with you.
We love a good party too.

But never ask us
to shrink
to make you more comfortable.
Because every time we stand tall,
some kid
somewhere
learns how to live.

I find myself back at 3240
Where we used to sit at the back table,

Close to the bathroom in case we need
A hit of nicotine or a visit with mary.

They replaced the wooden tables
With cold marble, erasing

Our initials we carved
Into these tables on all those weekends

Spent with cake pops and comics
We never ended up reading.

I’m back at 3240
And they changed the parking lot

We aimlessly walked around
under strained street lights.

The gas station has a new generation
of fiends who might go through the

same as us. Yet nothing is
the same here anymore.

Kids don’t walk here anymore,
Nor do they rome what was once

An aimless field of washed out
White parking lines

Nothing is the same, because we aren’t kids
anymore. We’re not sixteen

So you’re not here
And here I find myself, back at 3240

A Mutual thing,
just scrolling on the app, then I found him,
hesitation runs rampant,
but that first date sparks flew.

So much in common, but also not,
Legos, Star Wars, adventures, common.
Guns, anniversaries, planning,
remembering flowers and favorites, not.

There is love sometimes,
that stomach gurgling,
and anxiety-breathing kind of feeling,
the kind that knocks you off your feet.

Other times the kind of love is known,
out of convenience, wrapped in lavender,
to get our parents off our backs
because they think we’re someone else.

There are things that I don’t like,
things that I push through,
I don’t think I can change them,
I’m scared of change anyway.

Too much anxiety and dread creeping up,
in the end we decided, it was,
A mutual thing.

I still think about what to do
When I cannot control the circumstances
Alike waiting for nothing in some thoughtless queue

Combatting the shadows with fists anew
Can put us into different kind of trances
But ‘tis likely you’re waiting for nothing in this queue

I gather there’s something you’ve been through
Knew it when we exchanged glances
You’re conjuring up plans about what to do

Believe me, I’ve been there too
No need for the anxious, defensive stances
When you’re waiting for nothing this queue

Broken at home with a sickly sort-of flu
Contracted at the fall of a romance; is
There something you need to do?

Just take a seat and let it happen, due
Is your rent; while you take some chances
And time to think about what to do
Because all you must try is wait for nothing in this queue.

Maybe there’s no baby waiting at the end
of this mile-long string of months,
lining themselves up into years.

Perhaps I’m supposed to buy
a velvet couch to match the cat’s eyes,
pass my days scouring vintage shops
for an Issey Miyake dress I heard mention of
on an abandoned corner of the Internet—

our open nights spent swaying
together at whichever concert
tickles our fancy that week,

your thumb making circles against mine
on the quiet car rides home
after Mother’s Day brunches.

One day I might
get that ginkgo tattoo I imagine
on my forearm, the state of my body
no longer having to be pristine.

And I would be free of all the math!
Morning cup of coffee plus afternoon tea,
ovulation strip times basal temperature,
hours ’til my period no longer
minutes to midnight.

Is it so bad
that the hands of our alarm clocks
may always be drug down by sleep
and the promise of bagel sandwiches
on Sunday mornings?

Would I rather a lifetime
of skirting the globe as we wish,
adding mementos from varying cities
into our living room decor—

Manila for dinner,
New Orleans for dessert?

And nothing but time for the only other
who can understand
the quiet devastation we share
instead of a daughter;

Maybe that’s the gift.

The two of us doing magic:
missing the thing
we never had.