He Came

poetry, abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, depression

he sleeps twisted inside of me
hands tight on my bruised lungs
if I had a voice
with him
it would slice my own tongue
and when he moves to awake
his easy turn on my hand
burns through everything I know

one slow thrust into my dignity
and I split in two
and I don’t know
which one is me

spiders inside me



In the morning he crawls across me
pasting me with his skin

his limp tongue travels around the clock


I watch the fan spin my blood to a thick boil
fists tied white
chest tight
open wide…..

spiders crawl in
feeding ammunition
his slow words lock the air
his hard wear
my pulled hair

I’m twisted around this prison
caged in a dark rhythm
until the deep alarm
the heartbeat

his slimy little army marches through deep flesh
he smiles
trying to disarm me

and I watch the fan spin around and around
and wait for the
spiders to crawl out.

It Is My Breathe

In any room,
it does not matter which colors are used or
which carpet is laid,
in any room where teeth grind together,
or heavy hands grow into tree stumps,
I lose my breath.

It is not just any breath, either.
It is the breath that keeps me,
that prays for me
during moments that the stone ships sail in,

it is the breath that I hold
when dog-faced warriors
chop off my family’s heads,

it is the breath I caught when
unwanted hands disturbed my
tranquil femininity,

and it is in any room painted any color,
where deep red blows flushed faces into tight lips
and she,
or he,
pound voices of hammer,
roaring chunks of stew
into my tiny chest,
I do not know if it is I, or if

my breath loses me.