3am Guilt

When he comes down to earth,
From his chandeliers,
At 2 am,
You’ll be startled-
And convince yourself you’ve seen the devil,
By 3.

When he touches your throat,
You’ll tense up and choke,
On imagination and lust,
Apparitions concocted from ceiling fan dust.

When he penetrates your womb,
You’ll scream of pain,
Drenched in juice,
In your bedroom,
Screaming is no use,
You’re the only one on this plain-
Of personal sexual abuse.

When you’re alone,
You’ll create him to blame,
At 3am, when you feel ashamed,
For touching yourself for the past hour.



The ties to my devil,
Severed at every level,
I repent for gloating,
I abstain from hoping,
Too hard in triumphant day,
While my demons still remain in way,
Of what is to come,
I am not yet numb,
But healing.

I force my paces unset,
From paths I haven’t walked yet,
But seen with watery eyes,
I have broken the habit of questioning to what I know I’ve been tied,
Not until now have I tried,
To actually look beyond my burning grounds and old skies,
I have slowly halted the perpetual, one word at a time.

Now I stand along the edges of commitment to a better woman,
More complete,
Not tempted to compete –
With outstanding facts contradicting her emotion,
I stand by a more beautiful commotion,
A more final devotion,
To irrefutable evidence of betterment,

With Decision

I don’t want to be the reason she dies,
I would not be able to live with myself,
Two innocent souls, one transgression,
No, not again.

Vibrantly violent what I beheld,
What pain struck my chest,
What pain struck her chest,
It struck her worse,
It struck me best,
Relentlessly forced me to express-
My guilt for my actions impure…
While still unsure my complete intentions,
These actions, extensions-
Of what my subconscious would not release peacefully,
And as the mountain of disdain increased speedily,
I collapsed beneath its weight,
I broke her, and that is when I knew I could break,
Cold and still beyond the night,
Bursting into day,
My worries would come to stay,
Drag me to reality, and demand me to display-
My worst.

I would rue the next night’s coming,
Heart pounding outside my ribs,
To know I wouldn’t sleep,
Openly burdened by tribulations I couldn’t speak,
Dedicated self-hatred slander and slurs I couldn’t peep,
I would be the epitome of self-defeat,
Which means once I rose,
From the heaps of her I tried to dispose,
At a new nexus now with a decision only God knows.

Cemetery Girl

Busy of late,
Running towards,
In the dark, who fate,
Chooses to intimidate…
The cold cemetery girl bewitched by the dead of night,
Twist and turn under the moonlight’s burn,
Again and again.

With each step,
I do not forget
My reasons to greet death,
With open arms,
Her unholy frozen charm,
Keeps me running.

The purest thing I know,
Her essence gives darkness to my negative space,
Beating frantically what is not,
Finally cloaking what I should not see,
In…and outside of me,
My sweet pea, my darling.

She’s always quiet when she speaks,
I always convince myself that she’s dying when she sleeps,
She implores I do not do that…,
It will bring unwanted stress to my already feeble bones,
My love frightens me when she’s still like, cold like stone,
I believe her home she’s outgrown,
I ask her to come with me,
Follow me back,
She hesitantly silently agrees,
She jumps on my back,
Latches on my shoulders while keeping herself intact,
We arrive at my home,
And plague the people I live with, selfish and unknown,
Breaking the skeleton of my mother’s own throne,
Bashing and beating,
Maiming and mistreating,
She speaks up now,
Loud and screaming,
Providing me with meaning-
To my actions seemingly violent by the minds I’ve set free,
Let them be dead, like her…and me,
Cemetery girl, utterly free,
She smiles…and winks,
I think,
I thinks,
She blinks.

16 Confections

Teeny confections,
Enough for 16 people,
All placed on glass dishware atop the banquet table,
6 pitchers of acidic drink to be served after the uncomfortable pleasantries are exchanged,
The un-pleasantries,
Small “How are yous?” and empty topics right before we sit to glut,
Starring lustily at the ham the chefs have already cut,
We bow our heads in grace as the hall door’s shut,
We ask for nourishment from poisonous fruit,
We ask for quench from the Devil’s grail,
We thank God for the opportunity to abuse,
What he has given us in good grace,
We are Christian, and this is faith.

Chumping and crunching and sipping and clanks,
Fronting and lunching and fibbing and drank,
Watch our ethics crash to the ground,
Let our spirits lift along with the sound,
Screaming and yelling and dancing and fits,
Seemingly desperate old men romancing the witch-
es of our Christian faith,
The holy, the righteous, the grandeur the great,
The folly, the night mess, the banter, the hate,
Histrionics and drama alike…
We praise our God with transgression tonight.


The glorious exposition of her emotion in color,
Displayed on the holy walls of her tiny cage,
It gives her a little more to look at, when she’s stuck with rage,
It simply a mixture of white and grays,
It asks for her attention to be paid-
As she convulses in and out of consciousness,
I stare in, making empty promises,
That one days I’ll release her…
But those are lies,
She’s simply too dangerous and you can see it in her eyes,
They’re calm, peaceful, yet sick,
With a liquid coat that seems lizard-like and thick,
She’s trapped with her problems she can’t fix.

Every night around five,
I hum her this saddened song,
She smiles and laces her fingers through the thin bars of the cage,
A saddened song that won’t age,
It’s 2 minutes, 36 seconds long,
When I stopped humming and looked inside,
I saw an empty cage, still with disbelief that she died.

Caucasian Foster Girl

Caucasian foster girl with braids,
And stories,
Many stories,
Both big and small,
With no parents,
No drugs,
No hatred,
Only love,
For humanity,
After years,
Her sanity,
Still in tact, demonstrated in her tears,
And also-
Her fears,
Of fading into the black –
Life of new discord and old confusion.

She sticks with,
The other children,
Aside from,
The deadly calm,
That traps its victims,
In arid palms.

She lends her eyes,
To frozen windows,
Tapping the glass,
Counting cars that pass,
19 now,
The age of she,
Out of school,
Completely free.