I take a tweezer to my chest and I pull fat yellow strands, like grubs,

Out

It’s a nightmare- it leaves holes in every place I pulled

I am fixated, determined; my mind cannot rest until it is done

Every, last, one.

There is some satisfaction in that, even if the results are ugly

Pull, release, discard

This is my own chest

This is my own, flesh?

I didn’t even know these grubs,

But I guess I felt them,

Like a burning in my chest

A deep seething hatred for myself

The worst part is that we’re related, somehow

And it’s that “somehow” that gives me pause

What do you do with disdain

For something inside of your skin?

What do you do with disgust

For something that’s within?

I guess I’m not sure you can remove it all,

Without leaving holes in your chest

Perhaps I need to learn to sew

To close the holes I left

Not Neutral

When she said it, I don't know why;

I pictured one sectioned off plot in a desert

The grass she lay her head on shone

I don't know why;

Outside the gate of the home she described

There was only barren, dusty earth.

No houses, no trees.

Maybe the reason is the breezy angle of her jaw,

The way she could acknowledge politics,

and still sound racist.

I don't know why;

She was so earnest to let me know

That she "understood"

My position in this

Is not neutral.

I don't know why anyone would expect it to be

Hers or mine

Give her the floor, to speak

What say you, 

me?

"I was never incapable.

What I was was angry

What I was was affected

My protest was received with the same energy

As the offense: 

You do not see"

And today, what shall I use?

Hers, or mine? 

She must have the floor for this, 

She must have voice and stage

Even so, I will outgrow her pain.

Violence

The blow sent teeth flying and I can't stop thinking

About white pellets careening in front of my face.

There's something mesmerizing about violence.

It could have been worse, yes. 

But it was enough

Enough to make her fall away from her body for a moment

Not because she didn't feel ownership,

But because she felt offended by the loss

Because she felt threatened and upset by how easily pieces of it could be taken away

I don't know, 

There's something mesmerizing about violence

The Gesture

I can admit that sometimes,

What I need is parental guidance.

Is that what prayer is? 

I wouldn't trust this with anyone who didn't know all paths

Who wasn't all good, all pure

How close to me before I mess it up though?

Free will as blessing and curse. 

I can admit that I've consulted and heard you and chosen my way.

Was it the relationship or the decision as gift? 

I can admit that so so much has changed now, 

But I still want to come

Relationship as blessing, choice as consequence and gesture. 

I can admit that in one reading,

I never had what I needed,

In another, I always did. 

My life, in sum, becomes the gesture. 

Mysterious

I keep loving people

Who are mysterious to themselves.

Is that the appeal, that we learn together? 

I'm not sure.

Is it mysterious,

Or censored?

If the latter, 

I may be doomed. 

If the former, why? 

Audacity

I will eat your audacity with rice

It's different to another kind I've seen 

With absolutely no achievement

Behind its pride

Your stance is high and strong

Based on the pain

Of seeing your talent

Bleed from your fingers

And being asked 

How dare you?!

So much so that you question

If you should

But the blood demands it

Even if humans

Would have you killed

Silence will kill you anyway.