SelfLove that becomes YouLove

They call it self love, I call it second and hand outward love. I call it giving you the love that'll only sit on the shelf and collect dust if it stays with me. You see the love, I won't show myself. I'll pour into you from a picture that is not full itself, but it will imagine itself with all the love that can never be contained and will be manifested into you. 

They call it self love but how can it be called that if the self never sees it. Now technically the self does see it but only when it's portrayed onto you and only then will absorb it second handedly almost as if a consolation prize just to be melted down and turned into more for you. The self sees none of it but needs none of it either but yet deprives it from herself so she provides herself to others.

I want my own wishing star

My mother says my prayers tend to be repetitive & heartless. God knows me, my heart, my wish list.

He knows why I pray like a broken record and for the same things. Phil Kay once wrote a poem on this repeatedness. 

My mother says my prayers are a form of repetition , 

My chest falling & rising is also repetitive.

Philsaid saying the thing over & over again makes the things mean nothing, but ask & you shall receive. 

She’s Bliss, Blissfully Kissing You

She’s bliss; not joyless.

Her color resides on her

cheeks. Whatever color

resides on her lips now

resides on yours

not noticeable to the naked eye

undercover, for only my lips to see 

where they left their mark

She’s bliss, not

joyless. She’s whimsical,

she’ll dance from

cheek to cheek

to full face, brighter

more vivid than a hydrangea.

Sweetheart

She sat still for a minute and looked away from his searching eyes. He can't feel this way about me can he? I mean it's only been 3 months? She snuck a look at her hand in his it just fit so perfectly like these cheesy magnetic couple charms. She didn't mean she felt safe in this. Sure her friend thinks it's corny but they're not dating him. She is. He catches she's distracted and pushes some hair off of her face and hopes it'll snap her back into reality. It does the trick. You okay? He asked. She nodded. 

They say "Smile"

¨They say smile¨

They say it

can´t be ´too hard´.

They say to smile &

to be honest

I want my response to be

to go piss off,

to go find someone else

who is probably

feeling the same way

I´m feeling now, but

worse & tell them

to smile & see if they

don´t give you a 

response that´ll 

shut you down.

They say to smile.

They say to smile & 

when I do

I wince. - it hurts -, but

I don't tell them

I dont give them

fuel to put on their fire,

I don't give them

fire to add to their fire

I just comply, grit my teeth

a low mumble &

just do what they say…

They say to smile &

sometimes I don't even

have the energy to

get out of bed

feeling more like

a piece of chewed up gum &

stuck on some surface

to dry out just to be

peeled off the force

just to get out my bed

this morning,

before this shift,

more all the above

than a human.

They say to smile.

They say to smile,

like being told to do so

is a command

that does not register

in my head.

They say to smile

They aren't smiling.

They say to smile &

I want to say

fine, but you have to 

smile first,

but I know that´ll

be seen as aggressive,

being a black woman

I already have

to deal with the

possibility of being

labeled as ´unapproachable´ &

now the risk of being

titled aggressive just goes with

the flow of the stereotype &

can't have that cause

I am no stereotypical woman,

I have no stereotypical overthought thoughts.

The say to smile &

I do.

They say to smile &

I don´t.

They say to smile &

I make eye contact

begging them to ask me again

instead of asking why

I´m not smiling.

Cause then that'll

be a push for

an actual conversation &

not a poem

but then what would

the point be

in being a poet