If I wrote a book

You should write a book, about the men you’ve met. 

And what chapters would the last 3 months be?  

- Blank Pages -

Healing

“i am mine.
before i am ever anyone else’s.”
― Nayyirah Waheed, Nejma

Your ability to forgive is part
of your ability to give – and you give
in two ways:

selfishly, expecting something in return,
tearing pieces of yourSelf, marinating
them in tears, demanding your martyrdom

or

Selfishly, from a benevolent space where
you (for)give because it takes nothing out of you,
and the giving Self replenishes with ease,
love.

– Always Whole

Sick

I am sick of hearing

that I write well.

And I am sick of hearing

that I am strong.

But that doesn’t mean you should stop saying either.

Systemic Human Anatomy

Bone and blood are all I write about:

What else is there but rock

and rivers to break them open?

Evidence

They’re not all gone, you know.

They come in flash floods, from across the world
with poor infrastructure
and the smell of open drains

and freeze, instantly in subzero Toronto,
me to a moment; they nail my neck
to some January night, mid
winter, twice maybe a week.

“Do you need your receipt?”

I wonder if the cashier can see
where my tongue meets
the styloglossus at the back
of my throat, twitching as this time dart icicle
pierces the tissues: it looks like a pen, I want to say, helpfully.
There is a stylus in your skull,  a pen made of bone holding a muscle
which moves your tongue, and isn’t that poetic and perfect?

Shouldn’t that be enough?

“Yes, I do. It’s good to keep track of things.” I say, quietly.

– Good Memories

Admiration

Someone can love your poetry
and not love you

and this may be confusing,
and you want to scream
“my poetry is me”

And this is true:
your words are you.

But you
are not
(just)
your writing.

-Objectification (is too cruel a word.)

Gifts

Not being able to remember good things
is sometimes a  blessing.

– Saying  Goodbye