heady

I’m not beautiful
and I’ve learned not to believe
the words that come
from lips
that crack at the edges,
its night and dark
but the poetry is thick with the humidity
of a day sitting
in cubicle sized office with
air conditioners running
and sex rampant on my twisted mind-
fetishes unleashed between
the ring of phones
and the way old men stare down
my shirt

but I’m not any different than before
when looking in mirrors
or standing
against the backdrop of a sunset,
I only know heart
and how it feels broken
and re-pieced
and broken
and then found as if it were the last
bit of humanity
that he kept in locked vaults
keyless entry
where only one man could tempt
the fates of emotion

but I don’t know sunshine,
I’m at home in the darkness of night,
sitting in front
of computer screens as shots of
cold medicine soothe
a cough
and I could tell you what I want
how I feel about him
or you
or them
how stars look
when shooting across my breasts
or the way I’d arch to touch

and sometimes words
are overrated
even when I pen them half asleep
and I think on love
or the chores
the responsibilities
of tomorrow,
my mind is circular like the fan
that blows goosebumps
across my body –
and still,
the night is dark and the poetry
if full of the humidity
inside me