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Pippi B. Poem
I write about my ex a lot,
we didn't talk much, but our tongues touched,
we used to have sex a lot and
it was so hot that it set my soul ablaze,
and no, it wasn't my first time, but damn,
he sparked something in me, I was ready to tell
my mother I am in love now and I am a woman
in ways I never was before, I hoped that these
flames never go out, I'd proudly show off these
burn marks and these scars, I'd leave my
Neosporin at home.
I said that I needed someone to come along and
break my heart, but no, it was only a joke, I just
needed that spark to write, something to get me
fired up, something to get my pen scalding ink
into the page, but why did it have to be pain?
You were never good at detecting sarcasm,
you were never good at reading my text
messages, responding to my love, my love
this burns, I have reached my boiling point
everything of yours must go now.
Take back those texts which were more like
I was conversing with myself, the phone calls
that were always convenient for you, the "baby,
I really want to see" when you felt like being bothered,
the "I miss you" when you wanted to slide inside me,
because remember, we didn't talk much, our bodies
touched, we used to have sex a lot, naive of me to think
that lust could convert to love so easily, you quickly
reminded me that I am was playing with fire.
Take back those shirts and hoodies that used to smell
like you, the ones that I would breathe in deeply when
you weren't in my presence, take those good days back,
they cloud my judgement and make me forget that the
bad times outweighed the good like a fat kid on a seesaw,
take back those words, you didn't mean any of them, those
lies that stuck to my thighs, this body tagged with your graffiti,
this love that was never reciprocal, never equal, I love math
but I have always had a personal beef with improper fractions,
take this body, this vagina-WAIT. Actually, just bubble wrap that
and put it in a box and send it back to me, I will be sure to give it
to someone more deserving than you next time.
My friend warned me after our second break-up that this is
dangerous, but I said no, I waved her off, that because you,
an arsonist and me, a pyromaniac, that this is just the way our
love goes, I turned off the sprinklers, ignored the beeping of the
detectors, I snatched the batteries out after a while, I told my
friend no matter what do not call 911, do not extinguish this,
there is no point, this forest fire destroys everything in its path,
this love is a slow burn.
There are things that you can't take back, things that you want
to give back, or throw away, they still find a way back into your attic,
or back in your bed, or lodged into your brain, I remember scrolling
Twitter once, and landed on one of your tweets, you said that you
was just dating but it was nothing special, and that caused my heart
to combust, as if implying that I was nothing special, like I didn't concave
my body in the ways you wanted me to, like I didn't engulf myself in
submission, like I didn't become the woman that you wanted, nothing
special and that burned like spraying perfume into my eyes, and that
singed like rubbing alcohol into a fresh wound, hurtful pits of rage, I
felt flames coming from my ears, I spat venom, I became a Komodo
dragon, I became dead set on ruining everything you owned, my blood
simmered, it reeked of the smell of my bubbling flesh, I have reached my
melting point, everything of yours is gone now.
At least I can say I tried even when it went up in smoke, I coughed and
choked and my eyes ran tears, I am the last thing to go, and though this
pains me, I must leap from this burning building even if it means I'll break
my legs, at least I know about sacrifice, at least I know about love though not
much to show for it but at least I tried; I am the one who flew too close to the
sun, I am the one who couldn't control the chariot and Zeus had to strike me
down, I came back alive as a firefly, pray you get to catch me next time, I arose
from the debris blemish free, my friends will say look how you glow now, and I
will say yes and I now have tons of material, but why did it have to come from
pain? I hope you are scrolling on Twitter or Instagram or see me in person and I am
smiling, and you think wow what happened to all of her scars, isn't she something
special, she looks so beautiful, she is so happy, without me...without me? And I hope
it burns your hearts to ashes
Copyright © Pippi B. | Year Posted 2016
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Pippi B. Poem
Week six.
There is a natural disaster occurring, tsunamis of
morning queasiness Monday through Friday, Tuesday's
lunch on my favorite pants, denial dances on the weekends.
It was Sunday. One word, two syllables causes a tornado
of emotions, hurricanes of tears hit my hands and pours to
the floor, my heart sinks and drowns. How many casualties will there be?
Fact:
I account for thirteen percent of the population but
thirty-seven percent of all abortions.
Saturday.
With my hoodie sheltering my identity, I enter the building.
Protestors, shouting this is murder, hand me pamphlets that I ball up and
throw away, sign my name and wait. Blood samples and pee tests.
Ultrasound pictures, nurses ask do I want to be sleep or awake?
Counselor asks how will I feel on Sunday? Floods of tears drench
my shirt, uncertainty and guilt gets caught in my throat. It’s time.
Fact: I am five times more likely to get an abortion than white women.
I remain stoic.
But in the inside, I tremble like a newborn antelope fearing the new world.
I weep like a lioness losing her cub. The nurses strap my legs to the paddles.
My heart beats and I swore if you looked closely, you could see it protruding
out my chest, my mind races and I swore I saw galaxies and landed on Saturn,
I stare out at the strawberry colored walls and I remembered how far along
the nurse said I was. I couldn't muster the nerve to look at the ultrasound screen.
Fact: Sixty-nine percent of pregnancies of black women are unintended compared
to fifty percent of hispanic women and forty percent of white women.
Seven weeks and six days.
Copyright © Pippi B. | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Pippi B. Poem
He got on the train at
52nd street. I was already
sitting on the chilly blue seats
with my niece who pulled on
my curly black hair, trying to
get my attention when it was
stolen by him.
With the sun dirty dancing on
his face, I saw him, a man,
so striking, so beautiful he was
his disease, his strength
his strength, his confidence
his confidence, his beauty
his beauty intoxicating.
I wanted to kiss the
blotches of his skin-
the shapes of peninsulas
on his hands, Australia
around his nose, Africa
on his eyes, America
around his lips-
where melanin used to be.
Though I would have given
a little of my melanin to
cure his incurable disease,
he didn't need it. For so many,
outside appearance intertwines
with beauty. He had more depth,
his disease doesn't define him.
I wanted to kiss the
mahogany color of his skin,
smell the butterscotch on his
lips, delve into his mind probably
so rich of diamonds and gold,
he's a remedy for my shallowness,
the train comes to a stop. We smile
at each other as he gets off.
Copyright © Pippi B. | Year Posted 2015
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