She came back.
Briefly.
Back from mind and heart.
Back into my
actuality.

The initial shock
of external appearance
immediately
transposed itself
into the feeling of
habitual love.

There was no alteration
beyond the
superficiality
of her changed deportment.
The strength of character,
the courage to face
unflinchingly
the extremities of
physical discomfort
and pain . . .
none of this in any way
differed
from the recalled
determination
that inspires
the admiration
and the adoration
in which she is held.

She is not a survivor.
She is a victor.

her eyes pluck him
like harp strings
sing for me, boy.
do you sell your voice
like you sell kisses?

she does not have strings.
he would not pluck them
if she did.

Why oh why
Do the trees obey me
Why oh why
Do the skies orbit me
Why oh why
Does my flames shine brighter than many
Why oh why
Is the rain so willing to help me
Why oh why
Do living creates depend on me
Yet my one true love
Sits on the opposite sides of me
And as we unite
Once in 365 days
A day to ourselves is added
We release nothingness
Utter darkness
Our love is a dark whole

I have written love songs to the Moon
(hoping they would reach their destination)

no reply was forthcoming, not how I imagined,
only silence

but in this silence I found succour
in this silence I know love

love comes in a mysterious way
touches you places nothing else can.

i straightened my hair today
for the first time in three weeks.
my mother was happy
but i was not.
--
last night
she said,
i know you're an artist,
pero no andes como una loca.
don't go around looking like a crazy person.
--
i kept touching my hair today.
missing the stray curl that stayed behind my left ear.
missing the space my hair used to take up,
wild and free.
feeling smaller.
in a body that was not my own.
--
this hair, mami,
does not belong to an artist,
y no es de locas.
es mío; con él nací.
in it i carry the waves
that carry me
that carried the bones
of my ancestors all the way here.
--
these curls, mami,
they are big enough to hold me,
to hold all that i am.
they are a garden in which beauty grows.
they are rivers that lead to the ocean.

pain in this case is a necessity--
self inflicted to heal the hurt;
causing waves and ripples
of emotions--
quite priceless for what it’s worth

A storm is boiling above my head, a
raging, red storm which has bubbled and brewed
in the skies around the place where I have
been ****** to for centuries. Electricity
surrounds my limbs and keeps me in the spot
where my hands have been nailed, standing barefoot
in an electric ocean which buzzes
and burns the skin off my feet. Like molten
wax, the sky drips down my arms over and
over until the flesh fades away and
all that is left is the sound of my screams,
tortured and angry, tearing apart all
physical matter around me. Metal
rain and anguish hit my body as power
surges through the coarse ground and I am left
as a sacrifice, with torn skin and lost
hope, underneath an eternal storm of thunder.