Crown Two

Submitted by Dali on November 10, 2005 - 21:15.
A whore I feel - for real.
I am searching for acceptance after all.
Repentance.
Smells of incense
from passerby's who hear
my moans of pain
from inside body strain, and sheet stain.

I confide
in you,
my deceased boo. You ghost, you.

And right now
I get up somehow
and walk out into the street with you.
We're always in mind and hand in hand
to the corner store.
I need more
alcohol and poison
to subside these feelings of true and
utter loneliness.
I confess
our intensity.

We're running now.
We've stopped and I drop
feeling the top of your pant legs
brush against my face.
It's a race
now.

Who's gonna win?
If you pick me up and pull me in,
Are we equal then?

In some ways we already are. Claro que si?
Little Puerto Rican, Haitian baby.

Our blisters still bubble
from parental figures
tough love trouble.

Spark a dog, roll up smoke
steal for coke,
and taste the fog in your lungs
son.
This daughter is done.
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( categories: Dali Colorado | Poetry )