Baby (My most prized piece)

My baby was like lovely
My baby spoke to me like sexy
My baby moved with me like Presley
My baby
Her baby was a real moment
Her baby spoke like stop-motion
Her baby moved with us like devotion
Her baby
My body is more than enough to watch
My body will never be stopped
My body was valumption in a brown paper bag
Her body is standard
Her body will always be scavenged
Her body was ill fitted for babies nature.
Her body.
My fight was harder than hers
My fight lasted longer than hers
My fight could run circles round hers
My fight
Her solidity was standing easy
Her solidity lasted long enough for baby
Her solidity could classify as…crazy.
Was silent
My tears were fucking worth more
My anger was valid
My easy going attitude was bullshit, but I pulled it off fucking well
And he found me in the fetal position, cradling words and soliloquies through his cavities in my teeth
Screaming for the need of his drug addictions and familiar pretentions
A daily dose of once a month
My addiction was passive
My addiction could hide just to seek
My addiction would wait every week
My addiction
Hid in a cardboard box in an attic waiting for dusty redemption, knowing it would come when the cookies were done
Her obsession was for protection
Her obsession was baby’s moonlit sonata with a liquid drug, blown by a girl torn into like a chicken
Her obsession was my destruction
Her obsession
Was obsessed with itself
My sanity planted
My sanity stretched through its own roots and choked the repast of my lifeless baby in the form of the telephone
My sanity stopped waiting every week
Every day
Every month
My sanity
Is back
My cavities
Are filled
My redemption
Was that last time I kissed him and he fell down flat, screaming “Give me my baby back!”
That time he called me his black widow
The 10 minutes he stared at me with dead time in the reflection of his eyes
My redemption
Was fucking beautiful
Her baby is kept in a plastic jar
Her baby stays in her neutral for her fear of him straying too far
Her baby is forever never his own individual
Her baby
Is miserable
My baby
My baby feels lovely
My baby moves through crowds independently, but with heavy amounts of sexual tension on her feet
My baby is open
To anything
My baby
Is me

A Letter To Be Okay To

Dear Self,

And I know you feel sad sometimes.
Pain is easy.
Don’t be complaining.

The hardest part is not knowing anything.
Daily rituals hoarded with what if’s and maybes.
I wrote about it before.
I seem to be lacking my baby.
I’ve gotten myself lost.
Surrounded by. Trees.
I could chop it all down.
But I don’t quite seem to have the resources.
Adaptation to slight glimmers of sunlight through tree tops never seemed too difficult.
Because you just. Crank. Crank your neck back and stretch your eyes open from the dreams of them maybe being back next to you in your bed with their fingers on your naked lower back.
It doesn’t even feel like your bed anymore.
So just stretch. Reach and tickle leaves aside so that there’s a bigger hole to the sky.
Because you will be fine.
Keep reaching.
Keep going.
You can do it.
You will be fine.
I promise.
You don’t need to wait for rain.
I want you to be embarrassed about the rhyme, feel free to cry and understand your pain.
Keep your arms up. And keep tickling.
No matter how much it irritates your fingertips.
No matter how fast the leaves change colors and crinkle down into your eyelids.
Accept the tiny fragments as irritants. Understand that it’s not just wetness.
Doesn’t matter how long it takes, the more sunshine you can get, the easier it will seem.
For the time being.
Even if your smile is fake.
Don’t be ashamed of wet pillows.
And never erase memories from couches and side streets just so that it’s easier to function.
Never tell yourself that the smiling wasn’t worth it and that you shouldn’t have ever dreamt of anything bigger because of how big your heart had gotten.
And it’s okay for it to get bigger.
Distance and time will make it stronger.
For whoever.
Maybe just yourself.
You’re an expert at watching yourself in pain.
So mend the sting this time.
You’re not ridiculous for feeling.
You’re lucky, if anything.
Soak your pillows.
But please remember to keep reaching.
Yes, you get to be sad.
But you more than deserve to be happy.