Tag: prose poetry

Between the Margins

My skin does not determine my story a story of how I got here my parents got here or where we live. It does not determine The language I speak My career choice Or the stereotype placed on me. Violent assumptions Of actions I have never Done. A collective Of fear, doubts, concerns That I…

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Missing You, Missing Us

Can we pretend for a second? Can we pretend the universe is mistaken?  Can you look into my eyes and unmask the reasons for loving me? I miss your delicate whispers and compliments in my ears, the licks on my earlobes, the sighs of your love. I miss your subtle kisses through the screen, as…

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First Heartbreak 2018

It’s a cruel scene, a tragedy to feel such a way, for a woman to experience a ruing pain. I’ve never felt so broken and betrayed, never sobbed so recklessly that my lungs could barely breathe. They asked about love and the meaning of it, and I truly believed I had it, that I was…

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Don’t Underestimate My Intelligence

People underestimate my intelligence. Scratch that. People don’t underestimate my intelligence, men do. I’m way smarter than I actually seem, and it’s a shame when you underestimate my intellect, my various capabilities. It might surprise you that I’m actually quite aware of your indiscretions and your ability to manipulate certain pieces of myself to make…

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Can You Hear Her?

There is this roar inside her body, a ghastly bellow inside her mind. And all she wants to do is listen to that rage and follow its howls, stand on the ledge of a ten story building and fucking scream. “AHHHHHHHH!” she shouts at the world, belts the wounds out into existence. It takes so…

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The Art in Nakedness

I become aware of his naked presence beside me, opening my eyes from a dream I can’t recall. His broad chest rises and falls against me, his arm sprawled across my back. His breaths are heavy, his spirit is light, and when I shift my posture, his hand adjusts; caressing the length of my spine…

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It’s Going to Be Okay

There are times when she would stand in front of the shower, just as she did as a little girl, and let the warm streams massage her shoulders. She would feel the water kiss the arch of her neck, the length of her spine, trickling down her torso until the water turns cold, until her…

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Disturbed

Music plays softly through a speaker resting on the corner of the desk, mimicking rhythms of Charlotte Day Wilson and Cigarettes After Sex to set the mood. Its soft vibrations calm thin walls and thick wooden frames of the bedroom, engraving its lyrics on freshly dug graves and sweaty, soiled skins. The pen glides along…

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