I Am A Matchbox Stick

I can barely breathe.

My chest has been heavy

for weeks upon weeks,

years upon years.

The future weighing

down my optimism.

My patience suffocated

by the need to be real.

Can’t swallow one more

fake time happy pill,

won’t smile for a crowd

of hating fools.

Only person that pulls me back

is my son

  • He’s so damn beautiful.

Reminding me

not to give a fuck

about anybody

that’s not present in my circle.

Quieting the rage

I feel when questioned

by fools that play the game.

Like why do they

expect me to be graceful

when they question

my need to be real?!

Only for my child

does this deep breath

come natural.

For him,

I’ll take an extra minute

to contemplate my reaction

and not give in

to what feels 

like a rage that I was born with.

Natural as the fire

at the end 

of a matchbox stick

when it meets friction.

A feeling of never fitting in,

never drinking the koolaide

laced with bulshit.

Societal expectations

of happiness.

A pill I can’t swallow

because society

along with her fake ass smile

is poison

and my throat won’t open up

for even one drop of water

to help wash down

the games I gotta play

to sit at that table.

All I know is,

the only thing that’s real

is when I hold him. 

Through a thousand 

thoughts of pain

while my mind 

fights every moment of fake,

my son’s laughter

breaks through,

shattering my misery

like cheap glass.

Clearing a space

for me

that just is.

I’m still a matchbox stick

but with him

there’s no friction.

The ropes around my neck

will always be my affliction

but being his mother

saves me from astriction.

Gin and Tonic

I’ve been drinking

And thinking

Contemplating

Running through my thoughts

Kinda feeling crazy

Wondering about me

And where I ought to be

Thinking about him

And how far away he is emotionally

Another gulp of gin and tonic

Head feeling lighter, though the pain seems chronic

I’m like a child that never learns

Laying in bed thinking about my behaviors

Canceling out all my wins

Focusing on the failures

Feeling like a sudden cessation of power

A disaster less self aware than a narcissistic mother

Plastered in this alcohol

In this game of life that keeps building up a wall

I can’t break it down

Periodically adding bricks as if my job is to lay it down

In front of me

Blocking my path to success in spite of me

Drinking down the liquor as if it carries me

Showing no sign of texting him if he isn’t texting me

Playing the dumb bitch who wants sex with he

Asking him over as if he would follow me

Knowing he ain’t coming because…well look at me

My curves aren’t enough to beckon thee

My words aren’t sweet enough to sugar coat my feelings

I drink it down because he ain’t gonna like the way these verses read

Go ahead and lie as if you think of me…

I’ve been rehearsing

I don’t give a fuck, no apology.

I’m drunk enough to tell you

That I won’t fuck with you

Unless you got me

My man better be in my corner mentally and physically

Worrying about my needs and my wants respectfully

Loving me

Gin and tonic

Now he’s calling, how ironic

Think he misses my mouth on his man hose

My words on his ego

Reacting to his feelings like they are my flow

Because of the way his smile glows

In this game of quid pro quo

Chaos creating love when it shouldn’t be

I should have stayed in bed wondering…

Now I’m alone in his arms like I couldn’t be

anything but his boo thing

At least that’s what he calls me

Jamie….babe…baby….booty call

And this gin and tonic bringing me back to the wall

Carrying me

Embracing love that will never be

Glass always half empty

Pouring me another

Gin and tonic.

A Smile on a Monday

My body is tired on Mondays

Fat in places it shouldn’t be,

Cellulite thighs and cheeks,

Stretch marks laid like river signs on a map

that takes one through the forest of growth and pain.

I have dirt under my fingernails,

Random acne breakouts on my face,

And messy curls on my good days.

On my bad days I cry in the car,

And sometimes let out a horrid scream,

shaking the steering wheel in a white knuckled grip

just to let off steam.

Always alone in my thoughts

without a lover’s shoulder to bury my face into

when reality feels like a burden.

I’m mostly happy

But sometimes, momentarily defeated

I am harder on myself than anybody

Making the mirror a tool for reflection

  • Not an enemy, but not always my friend.

I try hard to be better,

Continuously finding the courage to live another day.

Praying for strength, asking for guidance

A rose quartz in my pocket

  • I’m hopeful on Sundays

Born a fighter,

and still beautiful when I smile.