Burnt.

The face of my forefathers.

men that smoked polygamy once.

and forgot to exhale.

men that –

stirred women.

– like fine wine.

between their tongues.

bitter sweet.

misogyny.

angry black.

women that –

breastfed.

– with both hands.

as if forcing a prayer.

into their children’s existence.

as if our lips.

– knew God.

as if we could empty

– the pain.

of father’s mistakes.

of men like.

– arsonists.

with petroleum for fingers.

women touched –

– between their thighs.

igniting sparks.

– sweaty nights.

deadly fights.

kisses from.

– other women.

– emotional tides.

– sons like.

– fire extinguishers.

– putting out.

– mothers burning.

– from your.

– fuckery.

Cupid’s Vindication:

This is a public announcement to all the newly weds, the beloved, the couples.

Cupid’s dead.

I never gave him a chance to say his last words;

To that, I halfheartedly apologize.

His bones, however, sing me to sleep at night.

I curtained them over a window, and sometimes — just sometimes,

the ambience of past lovers strikes their panel,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

Figments of his being permeate the space between mind and soul,

between time immemorial and presence,

sex and missed phone calls,

It kisses the brain with a neuroplasticity,

one that strings memories and clouds thought,

one that whispers tales of her,
— the beautiful, the sweet, the divine,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

Cupid’s skin hangs from the ceiling like a lynched slaved,

like father’s clothes when he left,

like mother when she took her life,

like the remorse of death,

I touch it,

I touch Nicole,

I touch love,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

His arrow cradles itself in the palms of deity,

I pierce myself in search of its promises,

it meanders past the pain,

past the loneliness,

past the last heartbeats,

I see the strobes of an afterlife,

the illumination of heaven,

Yet,

even in the face of eternity,

I still dream of our time together,

 

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered self to forget love, not to be reminded of it.

 

— Miscellaneous Lover.