Author: poetryfest

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into my
eyeballs. It took three weeks;
resisting the urge to rip my
fingers off at the cuticle. I was
told it was gross to be so
ravenous. I was told to find
something else to do with my
hands.

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into my
eyeballs. Chunks of innervated
jelly slide loose, getting caught
in the rims of my rubbed raw
sockets.

The chunks trampled over my
eyelashes, tumbling downward.
Blood and plasma sweat down
my neck, crusting behind my
ears, nipping them fiercely; left
then right.

My collarbones filled with the
viscous liquid, dribbling hot
down my chest. I sucked in a
breath as what remains of my
eyes trailed downward like a
wide gelatinous tongue. Cool in
comparison to my blood.

Pirouetting in the poignancy of
my pain.

Spinning sharply on sensation, I
balance atop my
sadomasochism as if it were an
axis; as if I were bound to
return here forever.

I grew my fingernails
from scratch and dug
them into my eyeballs. I
convulsed. My arms
flailing, strobing into
otherworldly shapes,
bending and breaking. I
was transported into a
flashing pinkish
elsewhere. Gummy and
bright.

Crying stickily, my tears
make everything real.

I interpret my fluttering rib
cage as an epiphany; as an
unborn idea waiting to be
birthed from my stomach.

If only I were to push
farther.

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into
my eyeballs.

I press as hard as I can.
My fingertips reading the
grooves and bumps of my
brain like braille.

Searching desperately for
something legible only to
find patterns beyond the
oppressive grip of
organization.

I became coated in myself,
at once penetrated and
enraptured.

Opaque for the first time.

My flesh finally growing
bones.

The bell rang
And we all leaped to our feet
Crowding the hall
With dreams of days filled with rivers
And fires, and bikes, and naps
Our excitement hardly contained
Could be felt amongst each other
School was out for summer!

The buildup was pressurized
With many a day spent
Daydreaming and planning

There was that week we spent
Chopping down trees
To build a raft
To float down the river
Like Huckleberry Finn
The crazy plans included:
Cooking on a fire and
Bathing in the dirty river water
sleeping under the stars
and using a stick to push off from the bank

Blisters were medals
Mosquito bites were trophies
The dirt behind our ears
Evidence of adventure
Legends we were
Pioneers
The saplings were magic sticks
Of ambition and dreams had

And even now, when I pass trees
Small enough to be chopped by hand
I think of the old days before
Life’s complications and funerals
The bookmarks of a boy’s summer
Now mark your passing and
I’ll never forget those carefree days

this year began in quiet pain,
same tired sun, same windowpane.
i woke up numb, then woke up late,
the calendar felt like deadweight fate.
i watched my dreams collect some dust,
and learned to stand without much trust.
doors closed so fast, i lost my grip—
each “maybe” turned to “not this trip.”
i prayed for rest, then called it grace,
while smiling through a stranger’s face.
i told myself, “just hold on tight,”
but healing never came overnight.
they said to shine, i dimmed instead—
too many thoughts inside my head.
but even shadows shape the light,
and not all wrongs deserve a fight.
now whispers spread of power’s return,
a name that makes the country burn.
i fear the laws, the loss, the lies—
the red hats hiding in disguise.
the rest of this year might not be gold,
but i’m still here, and still not cold.
i’ll keep my softness, guard my peace,
and give my guilt a small release.
i don’t expect the storms to cease,
just hope they end with some release.
and if the world forgets my name,
i’ll still spit poems through the

with your hands that are mine
drag my warm body into a lake
naked heals plowing the mud, i’m still awake
submerge me gently while i’m wearing your dress
pastels and summer, repetitive flowers
clean my sins with passion, baptize me with death
i’m John, i’m first, i’m a fair breath
the water is a cold bed, but your locking grip
is safe, but anxious to wash the words on my lip
it’s a shrift between two foreigners, no common language
i scream while water fills this mortal carriage
while you open my rib as a rite of passage
gutting this fish with a prayer made of whispers
i bleed into your nails, now this becomes your canvas
my eminence, cut away this cancerous psychosis
take away this sinking ship, this belligerent mortality
drown me in these black waters
or be my witness and drown with me

Stories soothe the best when imagination soars as the eyelids close and the covers’ corners adjusts and finally a warmth envelopes. So, smile and snuggle as I tell you this tale of my bedtime story.

Perched upon the windowsill, a princess is supposed to be:
her room is meant to be filled with flowing flowers caressing
decorum selected in soothing styles for her yearning presence.
A room for her and nothing more.

At least that’s what my mama said.

A princess, my dear, lives amongst grace with pride and splendor;
see the roses of sharon adorned across your ceilings embracing the
piano, you so dearly play, in a lightened halo softened only by night light.
The room builds you and no one else.

At least that’s what my mama said.

And yet mama, tell me why as I shuffle around my bed,
whilst yearning for sleep to grace my eyes
I feel an itch on my legs
I feel the humps on the bed
I feel scuffs from blankets
I feel the weight weigh on my chest.
A princess is supposed to sleep her beauty sleep for her to be a beauty.
And yet mama, tell me why as I awake tomorrow
I know that eyes dull, red faced, swollen mess all too well?

I guess I lied too to my mama.

A corner of my room she has seen.
A vision of sereneness she has been shown.
A reality of overload she has yet to foresee and feel.

A truth I owe her.

Boxes. Mama. I live amongst boxes.

Perched upon the windowsill, a princess is supposed to be;
Yet caved in cardboard has stolen her spot. Objects of mine
and friends and some from him stay in those boxes. Ones of
use, clothes and shoes, lay in obstacles amongst the floors
among the wrappers of chocolate I ate the night before. A
lip gloss or two lay forgotten yet starkly amongst blackened socks.

I live amongst memories of a future desired I have seen in
dreams and nowhere else. Perhaps in scribbled books they
may echo. Yet I just simply exist breathing to get on by, eveloped
in a room of dusty smells of packed away giggles. Notes of songs you
ask I play nights prior has long been gone in this life, mama. Long
been sold to strangers who wanted a set of keys for their talented son.

Boxes, mama, meant to be unpacked, lay still duct taped within my room.
Sharped edged long gone from the scuffle of the move are reminders of
days of promises to get things out and away. But too many hours and alarms
have come and gone. A window of opportunity I failed to grasp. Now, boxes
have become a norm – a regularized phenomenon as I come and go. Far easier
it is for me to be able to climb and grapple around the decorum I have chosen.
A room for storage and nothing more.

Don’t ask me to take more boxes, mama.
Soon they will take space from my bed. But a favor here and a favor there
means I need to merge and stack the ones already existing prior.
I don’t need more boxes, mama.

But why are they already at the door?

Packages arrive when the dawn cracks for me to gather and collect: a
spot for them upon my desk with the other letters and trinkets sent from
friends so far away, all unopened and waiting for the day I care to sit
down and embrace their warmth once more. A gift from you, mama,
lay amongst the many. Told you, I did, that I enjoyed the surprise and
yet no urge pushes me to find out what lies beyond the cardboard box.

I stuff my room with boxes with no end to see.
I take them all and place them upon each other.
I see dusted layers of the first boxes moved in.
I sense a bit of comfort in the storage room created.

A hero, mama, is supposed to come for the princess
swoop her away from the dusted past into the roar of life.
Your stories always ended with a hero.
My expectations always started with a hero.
A hero, mama, never comes in my bedtime story.
The boxes block the hero from the princess.

And so, my bedtime story, mama, filled with the boxes
I have put here myself into the room in a damp corner
of a city far away from you ends with a choice to refuse
a hero and embrace the sleep that comes at the end of
each story told at the dampening of worldly light.

I ignore an itch on my legs
I ignore the humps on the bed
I ignore scuffs from blankets

I embrace the boxes filled with mine, yours, theirs, and his.
I embrace the weight weigh on my chest.
I embrace the darkness of the night post your bedtime story.

I’m stuck in this heat
with no shade or shadow
to protect my sunburnt skin
the sun shines bright into my eyes
and it burns

I’ve always been told that fire would cleanse anything that it touches
So despite being surrounded by flames,
I felt hope.
Murder is not something I ever thought I was capable of
But as I stood on the steps of our nation’s capital with this president’s head in my hand,
I felt a cold satisfaction settle into the back of my heart.
For all the women who came before me
And all the women who are still fighting,
This belongs to us.

You thought that I
would forgive your petty crime.
Little did you know,
no matter what you do,
my curse will follow you
to the end of your life.