Skin.

I gave you many chances
to see who I was within,
but all you could focus on
was the colour of my skin.

Advertisements

of men and monsters

He’s a good man
and I know he loves me
deep down.

He loves me
when he tells me he despises me
and this I know:

because he does it in such a way
that his tongue stops tasting like bitter tea
and instead pours out sweet syrup
all over me.

He’s a good man
and I know he loves me
deep down.

He loves me
when he tells me he’s ‘helping’ me
and this I know:

because he does it in such a way
that each slap, each punch is a devious game
where he so lovingly avoids the obvious skin
so I can still ‘look’ the same.

He’s a good man
and I know he loves me
deep down.

Or maybe

He’s just a man
and deep down
there’s nothing but

a Monster.

Trump card. 

​They’re screaming in empty rooms as their cries echo in the stale air. Their distorted faces and sandpaper throats never once pause for silence or breath.

Their new world is surrounded with faces full of chapped lips and muddy skin; of matted hair and bloody hands.

These are their costumes of resistance; worn proudly upon upturned chins and raised solidarity. 

Keep screaming. Fighting.  Pushing.

Because the oppressed will always remain oppressed-

If they let the bastards carry the highest voice. 

Bleeding Arms.

”I’d like to pretend that during the time you’d been gone I had completely changed. That if you were to ever come back home to me with a mouth full of dusty apologies. I’d just simply turn you away with glassy eyes and an empty smile. But we both know that’s a lie. You could come back to me tomorrow, next year or even after forever. And my masochistic arms would always would always be open for you; waiting.’’