Protective Instincts

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“Ma, I gotta watch “The Blind Side”, coach said I gotta watch it…what is it?”

If you’ve never loved a boy, love one.
If you’ve never helped a child, just once, try it.
If you’ve never watched a football game, watch one. Just one.
If you’ve never seen The Blind Side…go get it.

“It’s a movie that makes me cry.”

The first time I watched The Blind Side, I was snowed in at work (a residential treatment facility, for young men), I had to be up all night so I agreed to work, why the hell not?! I’m not really known for being soft, loving, and nurturing-the movie was touching…at some point one of the boys woke up and caught me crying. Needless to say, ALL the boys eventually woke up and watched me cry, for the rest of the movie.

(as I said, love a boy. really love a boy, unconditionally)

“YOU cried?!”
Me: yup.

“Let’s watch the movie! I wanna see you cry!”

So! We watch The Blind Side.

If you’ve never loved a boy, love one.
If you’ve never helped a child, just once, try it.
If you’ve never watched a football game, watch one. Just one.
If you’ve never seen The Blind Side…go get it.

Protective Instincts.

The Dead

i’ve formed a series of questions
to ask the recently deceased…

1). are your toes cold?

2). do you like the music i’m playing?

3). wanna hear a joke?

4). does the sensation or urge to urinate come?

i realize this may seem disrespectful
to the living,
but they’re of no concern,
not here
as you lay naked (and rotting)
in front of me.
we’re of earth and wind,
we do as we please.
sometimes your stiff, but pliable.
and this always pleases me.

I Won A Poetry Contest

(formerly: this space)

I won a poetry contest,
sorted (out) words, rifts
stanzas incomplete with poor
punctuation, the history of
writing in america captivated me.
They overpaid me for my pain, anguish on reserve. Publishing my overthought out bullshit. Emotions on broil, I’m a well put together mess.
My courses began a week ago,
home now and I want nothing to do with this place.

In a communications course, we discussed the tattoos that spoke up, down my arms. No one appreciates
a love of serial killers these days, probably because they cause pain. It’s the study of, that I love. Adorned my entire body in dark art.
My big plans to pursue forensic psychology lead me to sciences,
mostly mortuary.

I miss traveling, living out of a suitcase.
But nothing I’ve seen is as rewarding as it would be (with him).
I’ve displayed my best flaws, posted fiction like it was my life, on pause.
Too many unresolved issues makes for something, relatable.
I don’t know what to do with this space. Maybe I should start publishing under my name?

There’s no rules here,
nothing to confine me.
THIS place doesn’t define me.
Numbers don’t mean much outside of my grade book, I just know I can’t get anything below a “high B”.
Most of the shit I post is
“Scheduled” or from my iPhone.
I’d remove the “like” button, if the feature exists… (please help me)?

I won a poetry contest…
I guess my baby dying wasn’t in vain,
And I agree serial killers cause pain, and this rhymes too much for my liking, but it’s funny cause…
None of this is funny. I was mocking my lame ass love poetry.
Half the shit I’ve read here is just that, some muthafuckers need to
keep their day job.
I’ve still got both of mine.
I’ve owned far too many addictions
since seven ate nine, and no one REALLY reads any of my posts, and if
they did, they’d know…

Yo, I won a poetry contest, and I’m using the reward money to pay my phone bill.

Pretty stoked.

The Funeral Home

late last night
i read stacks of love letters
to the recently deceased.
they gathered around my work space,
envying my ability to breathe.
it was then i became a
sinner and a saint;
confessing love
and intense depth of hate.
empty eyes on me,
i spoke your name
loud and clear.
i’ve missed your face,
a million times
longed for your voice to
bring me home
to you
i present my soul on my sleeve.
my heart on a plate.
damn the space between
my lips and your mouth.
nothing left to say,
letting the papers fall away.
humming to song that’s
captivated you, i placed cold hands across empty chests and
wished i could be
less like me.
be my better half
you, as my life event.
these bodies, void of pain
the pressure of time working
against space and the fear
of losing you.
i’m going to love (you), forever.
professionally, an expert
an authority, i’ll make it an art.
i’ll carve out spaces among the stars
lend you every part of my
heart, all of my light
to hold your dark.
without you everything is dark.
i read stacks of love letters,
now i have nothing
my touch can’t say.
stacks of love letters,
all confessing my hate of this
distance and space.
stacks of letters to the
recently deceased,
hushed tones showcased
my heart on my sleeve.
voiced with emotion,
passion and pain
if you should cease
your love for me,
among these seemingly lifeless
bodies is where i’ll be,
bound.

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Hair

It’s wild. Just like I,
It’s been accused of being untamed.
Untamable, unmanageable.
Tangled.
Mixed blood?
She’s a halfbreed,
They whispered, loudly.
French?
Irish?
Mexican?
Not thick, but healthy, full of body.
Curls, and smells of honey.
Never waste time
Making straight lines.
The point is void,
It’s humid, my skin glistens.
Pulls back, into a braid
Fishtail
Safety net, bad habit
My go-to,
Fidget and squirm
A shield, covers my eyes.
Falls around my face,
Feels like home.
Childhood, two braids.
Reminder, I’m not the same.
Photos and frames, tamed
Tied tight, rests on her shoulders
Spills down her back.
It’s not midnight black,
It’s the color of dirt,
red like the earth.
But we’re family,
Hers is just more luxurious
Than mine.
I’d brush it, probably.
They’d brush it, when I was six.
Then seven ate nine.
Sit up and hold still,
Look down, look at the ground.
Commands, demands.
Ties, binds, braids, buns, pigtails
Curls, irons, bands, bangs,
Finger waves, shaves, colors
Shamed, but never guilty,
Not me.
The defiant one. Aloof and messy.
Tangled and unaware.
Just doesn’t know what to do with
Her hair.
And I comb and condition,
Wash, rinse, repeat.
Whenever the spirit moves me.
Grows and trims, usually when it
Smells like them.
Wakes up with memories
Lingering around my head,
Dark halos, spread out
Across my bed.
Starts over when I grieve the dead.
A reminder,
I’m not the same.
And I’d brush it…probably
Just a halfbreed.