La Isla Bonita.

She has hips like Venus,
that ebb and flow,
with the rhythm of the sea;
her waves wash over me.

I seek tranquility in her ocean.
Swimming in her to 
define my freedom.
A body of water like no ofher.
She smells of saline 
and hard labour.

Every breath's an effort, 
just like the very air I breathe.
Sweet as honey, 
she is thick as milk.

Despite being blamed 
for Eve's original sin,
she still weaves through
the traffic with expert skill. 

Blessed with the ability
to turn water into wine,
and chromosomes into people,
she embraces every obstacle
with passion and wonder.

As soft as velvet,
and as smooth as jade,
she is the reason why
brutish men are 
transformed into knaves. 

Le donne, mujeres, aurat—
in any language she is beautiful.
And for her very existence,
I am eternally grateful. 

Queen of Spades.

Breaking up lines of cocaine with a razorblade, 

I might just slit my wrists right now but death can wait. 

Bit my lips with such force that my thoughts started to bleed,

anxiety ate away at my insides until my chest began to heave.

Who is the master, and who is the slave?

Am I in still charge or am I now depraved?

How shall I address this visitor that's made me its host?

Is it just a phase or have I been possessed by some ghost?

Wicked as it is, it still makes my whole body convulse,

rapid cycling through my veins, it's taken over my pulse. 

How do you turn me to putty in your palms every single time,

all you need to do is whisper in my ear that I'll be just fine.

Cashmere your caresses, velvet your weapons,

satin your sentences that I ride up to the heavens.

Just one look from you and I'd throw it all away,

you blow up my insides like you've got a grenade.

Some would even say that I've got it made,

but I keep burning candles at both ends; 

I'm the queen of spades.

Funeral Rites.

Catastrophic calamity caused by careless oversight, you are the dimmest firefly in a field of fluorescent lights. Your pubescent arrogance led you to naively believe you were not out of your league, my fortress remained upright despite your sadly-executed siege. I could outsmart you at this game you attempt to play even if I was asleep, prepare to suffer your greatest loss, because I only play for keeps. You lit the candle at both ends then foolishly feigned ignorance, brace yourself as I attack you from every angle in defence. Not fooling anyone by claiming intellect, you simply regurgitated talking points to seem like you were smart—but now you are my sole target. Bullseye every time when I pierce your heart with every dart, you may think you're safe but death is imminent for I am equipped to end this war you wrongly chose to start. Silver bullets shot at you from afar, you should've begged for mercy instead of proudly pretending that you were a star. Grim is your future, bleak your past, watch as I rewrite your fate, bet you're wishing you hadn't asked for a second helping before finishing what was already on your plate. I'll poke and prod at you with my pitchfork until you're pleading for mercy, give you a single drop of water when you're desperately thirsty. You should've picked your battles but now you're six feet underground, just like your predecessors, you were silenced before you could ever make a sound.

Mama.

Mama was born a fighter, 

into a life of adversity, 

a fate beyond her control.

She was a nurturer from the start, 

and it was evident in the way 

she reared her seven younger siblings, 

without a single word of protest.

To say this warrior queen 

came from humble beginnings 

wouldn't do her abysmal upbringing any justice. 

My mother came from 

next to nothing,

in order to ensure that

we would not have to suffer.

A clay hut, in an indiscriminate village; 

all they had were four mud walls.

Her ambition was inherent, 

as every move she made was with intention. 

She endured the worst, and lived to tell—

a true femme fatale in the making.