a poem called "she"

a poem i wrote this past summer after having a conversation with a good friend of mine Simply Kat. I wrote it with a couple of women in mind including myself...


She lives in an apartment made of bricks
with a bathroom that sings of a fleeting heart
her kitchen faucet has a sore throat,
ends up in conversations with the skin of her ear drums
at night,
she loves in silence
dreams of a voice for making love
on white linen, stained
with well-worm human

In Octobers,
she imagines windows like the ones
along her new lover's spine,
tired of shoveling dirt over the graveyards
on her mother's wrists,
a daughter remembers
the switchblades tripping off the ledge
of her mother's
tongue
chicken-scratches her insecurities
on the mirrors of her eyelids,
licks suicide off the plate
clean
like a bulimic torn between the God that promises heaven
in her stomach
women
are
tired
of being hungry,
of gritty knees,
and calloused palms,
tear-stained cheeks,
and retired songs
she hums
prayers between the fingers of clenched fists
amidst whirlwinds

i wish i could tell this story like a lucid dream
could stitch heartache like loose strings at the seam
but i am tired
of spiraling
boiling
blood

you see,
love doesn't like to be fucked
from behind
lest i need to remind you of the missing artery
in your ribcage

boy, God ain't make no mistake
when putting a woman into your life

this, is for every
man
that has ever
laid a hand on a women:

May the wind blow against your skin
and you will
feel me
may she smack you the way
i never could

you will die
an old man with your hand balled in a fist
at the bottom of the atlantic
there will be a war
on the terror

may a thousand nails chase you in your sleep
claw at your flesh
like unicorn horns

angels will tear
their wings
from their backs
and beat
the shit
out of you
with them
feathers splattered wet
like abstract art

for they will fall
in your vanity
wishing to be human
just so they can show you
how its done

may a million battered women
march out of their graves
and dig their rest
in your trembling soul

and she wishes
she wishes she could say
all of these things
but us,
women
are said to have carried our hearts on our sleeves
always washing laundry
in case it bleeds thru the seams

she lives in an apartment made of bricks
with a bathroom that sings of a fleeting heart
her kitchen faucet has a sore throat
ends up in conversations with the skin of her ear drums
at night
she loves in silence
dreams of a voice
for making love
on white linen
stained with well-worm human

In Octobers
she imagines windows
like the ones along her new lover's spine

c.aja-monet