Landslide.

We lived high, upon the mountain,

the streets could not seduce us anymore. 

Far away from the sounds of the city,

no traffic jams on our way into work. 

All we could hear was the sound of the ocean

slapping playfully at the lazy shore,. 

Here we could celebrate in silence,

serenity filled every corner of our home. 

And all we knew, all we needed was beside us,

here was somewhere we could grow old. 

I was always frightened,

afraid of losing you. 

So everyday, when I came home,

you would be endlessly accused. 

I could not swallow my paranoia,

insecurity was eating me alive.

All the hurts from the past kept piling on

until they were as majestic as Everest. 

That day, we woke early to trembling,

our house shook until we felt a sudden jolt.  

If only we had paid more attention,

and strengthened our foundation,

then perhaps we wouldn’t be awash in water,

or drowning in the seventh sea. 

This landslide was bound to happen,

since we noticed everything

but the cracks right underneath our feet. 

Fighting from late night into the early morning,

unable to admit defeat. 

Perhaps we weren’t meant to meet,

maybe life would be simpler

had our paths never crossed. 

All I know is that the landslide brought us down. 

We came crashing to the ground,

like lightning and thunder engaged in a fight.   

The comforts we worked hard to acquire,
went up in flames then sailed out of sight.

 

Hole.

Holy water valentine, whose lips are cherry red,
strolls into the pastor’s shrine, thoughts filled with dread.

Temptations consume her, she is burning in her sin.

She clutches her rosary so tightly it makes her singe.

“Father, father, help me.  Forgive my evil deeds,”
she calls out for mercy, or a cure for her disease.

Her fishnet stockings tell a different story,
one many believe is inspired by greed.

 But with the Lord as her witness,
she only worked the streets so she could eat.

Jezebel of virtue, once she was so pure.

Devoid of any wrongdoing, that was her allure.

The other congregants turn up their noses when she walks.

They return to their stone houses, before pelting her with rocks.

wrigley field

he bought my innocent time
with promises of candy and wine
but when i opened my eyes,
i learned that those were just lies
for him to feel my underaged insides.

fourteen years old, in chicago,
when i ran out into the february frost.
i collapsed, then decorated the street
with this agony i refused to accept.
and this, the trauma that i could not eat.

there, beneath the famous lights of wrigley field,
i cried until my tattoo tears
erased the sparkle from my eyes,
unable to survive after learning
that the world could also be like this.

the vicious, windy city won this wicked war,
burying me alive that night, without a fight.
it threw the ashes of my adolescence
in the air, like criminal confetti.
it stripped away my security,
to soak me in my own sorrow.

i crawled into the cocoon inside my head.
remaining here in this self-induced coma
until i'd shed the sympathy-stained skin
of being a victim.
i REFUSE to be anything but resilient.
still, no butterfly should ever have to
suffer through abuse in order for its own
metamorphosis to occur.