roses
always die, trying to live within shadows of fear and darkness.
this form of love?
burns like acid, tears and eats away at the thin fleshiness of her fragile soul.
manifestation of a pretty boy---this time .
plot of the story remains the same
accussations
demands
fists
tears and kisses
a language spoken too fluently, she knows too damn well.
red roses, with thorns, he gives her daily...
roses as red as the imprints he leaves behind on fair skin
paints pictures across her canvas like a master artisan
and when he is done...steps back to admire his work
leaving her crumpled in the corner
kisses her forehead, hands her red roses
to this day, she still can't stand the sight of them
or the smell of them
so roses will never grow in her garden anymore
his murderous intent intentionally keeping her alive
the thrill in the pseudo kill,
the sick pleasure in the resurrection
even God, he said, couldn't have her
so she sleeps between deceitful sheets in the devil's lair
secret prayers hidden under pillows
afraid of the light once attracting him,
seeing an inner beauty he could not possess...he hated her.
picked her out of a store front window
only to become damaged goods,
unable to be returned
no longer in original packaging...
and just a lil' too used.
sweet poison of promises, "I won't do it again"
lingers on bruised lips like wine colored lipstick
intruding tongue leaves strange numbness on her breath
whispers of "i love you" puncture eardrums
as he holds her much too tightly
bludgeoning her temple with each calculated stroke of manhood
pleasure entangled with control
until his diseased essence fills her womb
chromosome x--chromosome y
she too a pushed angel among demons
she too a casuality of his love
never to see the light of day, never a first breath
never a smile, plenty of tears
broken heart, wings clipped, unable to thrive in turbulent waters
if only, just maybe...
could she of...? what if she...? perhaps if she...?
cleaned a lil' more, cooked a lil' better, became more like his hoar...
didn't smile too much, wasn't so friendly with others
was more like his father, less like his mother...what if?
holding her now empty womb, tears ascend the heavens
she pleads, "will you forgive me?
forgive me for not protecting you?
for not leaving roses on your grave?
because i just can't stand the sight of them
or the smell of them
and roses will never grow in my garden anymore
for you, babygirl, never had the chance to play there."
Friday, April 14, 2006
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5 comments:
I get it! this is a very beautiful piece. the transitions r terrific. i like it alot. it gives me an idea on how to come about on my next piece. endings are my favorite parts because in poetry (other things too) u jus never know what turn the writer might take. Love Ya
another piece with ugly imagery...well captured ma'am. very well captured...
thank u ladies.
some of the best therapy is writing...i will never forget her, eventhough i gave birth to her too early...her heart never had a beat on the outside, nor a breath escaped from her lil lungs.
God had his purpose.
I love you.
Kindred Spirits mama. Always.
Yup God always has a purpose and alot of times I realized that He won't tell us His purpose until after certain things are done and when we are coming out the storm. I guess God says that if he told us the purpose or reason before the storm, we probably wouldnt go. Plus how can we fear or fret over things we don't even know is coming? We can't. Tootlez!!!
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