Monday, September 12, 2011
I am a fickle-minded woman.
Journalist, poet, actor, pianist, singer, model, celebrity, evangelist, counselor, composer, inspiration, instigator, intellectual, academic, corporate bombshell, director, leader, mistress, girlfriend, friend, follower, hater, lover, rapper, critic, social-worker, straight-A-student, role-model, radical, revolutionary, strong, upright, appreciative, fucking perfect.
Why must I be?
I would rather sit in a pool of sweat scrubbing floors and beating rugs because I love.
I am love.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
I come home late these nights after the Wala Festival most often to no food or lights, on good days to cold food and a single bulb. Every night though, the house is literally empty. My brother now spends four to five of seven nights a week at his friends, and i find myself getting more and more irritated at this. I've already, in bruised indignation, raised the issue with my mother a number of times. I have also mentioned to the younger sibling that the removal of his personal belongings from our house to that of his friend would make possible the better use of space.
But i forget that i too have done this, at worse times and under worse circumstances.
I burn and burn to shatter these glass walls of
Here are my insides open:
You search and search to scatter these thoughts of
You and I were abandoned;
left holes and holes to batter these times of