To My Unborn Son Draft 1

An effective Heimlich maneuver

will often brake the tip of the sternum. {no pause}

30 percent of successful resuscitations

end in at least one broken rib. {longer pause}

 

They also end with a survivor walking away from a scene that could have otherwise taken their life.

Most things meant to heal you,

have to break something first.

 

So to my unborn son,

you will be the heart breaker

everyone warns their daughters about.

Not because you are insensitive,

or in-compassionate.

but because you will have a heart the size of an ocean,

but a mind wise enough to know the difference between a chapter

and forever.

When you leave them,

something inside them will BREAK

   feel like I need something here

and they will hate you,

{pause} until they learn to love themselves.

 

To my unborn son,-feel like that’s a little generic. Is there anyway we can have a better lead in?

You will be a mama’s boy,

and will hold no shame with that title.

you will treat every woman you meet with the gentle love, respect and honor you give me,

you will respect them

because they deserve it

and if they do not act like they deserve it

you will treat them like they deserve it

until they respect themselves {pause}

 

My unborn son,

you will not be perfect

you will fall,

fumble,

say hurtful things.

could talk about what and how-mass media, negative stereotypes, degrading women

and will SMACK these habits out of you,

but realize that only break you,

to make you stronger.

 

They say it is an irresponsible time to have a child.- I don’t like this part because 1. It makes it seem like I’m pregnant 2. Who are “they?”

That this world is so far gone,

but why not give it a reason to correct itself.

YOU

will be a reason for the this world to correct itself.

You will pivotal.

Necessary.

It would be irresponsible NOT to give Gaia you as a gift.

 

You will be a sunrise without smog,

a breath a fresh air.

You will be a mama’s boy. {soft}

You will treat this earth with the love, respect and honor that you owe it.

You will nourish the desolate soil of the ghetto,

you will break it,

so it’s root can reach the .

 

You will break hearts so we can learn what makes them beat,

break soil,

so our crops may harvest,

 

When a throat is lodged,

the sternum must be broken to unclog it,

when lungs fill with liquid,

ribs have to be cracked in order to drain it.

 

When this world is fills with toxins

and counterproductive behavior.

Some habits need to be broken,

some patterns need to dislodged,

you will the son

 

that SNAPS the horizon,

the light this world needs,

to see itself,

to love and respect itself

so we can finally rebuild.

Chains and Knives-Draft II

So I have this fear right?
And it's really shiny,
Like... a knife with no handle.

And I keep holding on to it,
this blade,
Because I figure

if let it go,
I'll have nothing to protect myself with.

27 days after you gripped my left hip,
it cringed…
Delayed reaction,
opposite of the one it seemed to have that night

The way it learned into you like a whisper,
like a hand on the small,
slender,
end of a woman’s back.

Like a faint moonlit shadow waning in it’s attempts for attention,
now it is a clamp fist screeching.
Blade protruding,
yelling something about abuse.

I wish I wasn’t so accustomed to holding you,
wish you didn’t fall into my palms so easily,
wish I could clench my fist,

I crave too much the grip of a man who wants to break me

in a way he will described as pleasure.

Whisper cayenne peppered Spanish,
and rosemary simmered French into the wave of me that will unfurl like the palm I never should have left open in the first place.

You are not my boyfriend.
No matter what happens as we lay together,
no matter how much energy is shared,
how much you give to me.

I know,
In the morning,
I get to keep you part of you.
Not the residue you leave on my skin
or the scorch marks in my throat.

I will take showers,
deep breaths,
and do yoga
to shake off your pieces
and send them back to you in the mail
No claim you make to any region of my body would ever be held up in court

You have no jurisdiction,
I was never promised to you,
Nothing was ever promised to you
or my ring finger,
or this heart that never learned how to love it back

27 days after you hand,
gripped my left hip,
teeth marks were shown in my skin,

There is something so inherently inconspicuous about you,
it can only be perceived as dangerous.

The first time I considered giving up my celibacy to you
I told you I would bleed.
You said, “please do.”
The most confoundingly sexy thing I had ever heard
but I wondered if you understood the repercussions.

I've been celibate for sometime now.
Never had a sexual experience,
I fear I never will.

Muscle memory has me reliving the abuse,

reminds me of he ex-boyfriend who admired my chastity necklace in daylight,

but seemed not to see it at night,

Who knew how to beg to push in without it sounding too much like rape.

How to use words to make a blood stain less suspicious,

I am no less suspicious of your intentions.

What if I let this blade go,
what will I have to defend myself with.
If I let it go,
let someone hold my hand,
someone who doesn’t mind a little blood,
a little humanity,
a little honesty to rub off on them

Guys don’t want the mess,
spend most morning after cursing the girls
they ran through for inconveniencing their sheets

You don't want blood on your hands
and I don't want to be the one to soil you.

When asked the reasons I am celibate,
I like to make them up,
decorate them in flowers and lace.

Truthfully,
I'm just afraid.
The first time someone let themselves in
it was without my permission
and it took sixteen years for that wound just to scar.

And now you come to me
As I am 20 years of age
and wan access.
I don't have another sixteen years
to wait for a scar.

Chains and Knives

It’s this chastity thing I’m holding onto.
It’s like a blade
with no handle.

The more I trust,
means the more I loosen my grip.
Then I get scared.
If I lose that weapon,
what’s to keep them from striking again?
It’s an imaginary knife that couldn’t slice through a metaphor,
but it’s all I have.

It hurts like her,
holding onto to something so pretty,
so promising,
only find out it will hurt you more than letting go.

Ok, so I let go,
say I let someone in to this bloody open mess
that is now my hand
blistered and scorn,
Are you telling me there just gonna know what to do with that hand
That they’re just going to nurse it to health.

It was the way he unfurled my hand though
how clenched it was,
he intentionally interrupted the energy I kept crowded in my fingertips.
There is something healing in blood,
not nearly as dark and disturbing as the emo era dedicated poetry to making it sound.

The antibodies,
the fighting power in it.
Something so miraculous,
beautiful;

Maybe I could find,
after all this,
that I can heal myself

Oshun

do not ask a hurricane if it is thirsty.

the answer is always ‘yes’

the core is always empty

the peace you find in the eye of my storm

is just an empty stomach that’s given up protest