The Art of Disappearing: Part II

The Art of Disappearing: Part II

Photos albums with our names

stained on stiff pages

Our faces plastered all over

Slick covers

The smell of sweet carrots

And fried grease,

Ice-cream on old stomping grounds

Hood stores turned into co-working spaces

And cute cafes

The mark of gentrification

times changing

Yet our love remains the same

Laughter in the middle of

that street in front of Emerald’s Pub

“Have you gotten home alright” texts

“I miss you, when can I see you?”

Chanting and singing Gods name moving

Orange flames on white candles

Mahogany tables scented with

the aroma of love, laughter, and remembrance

Sinking into the cushions of my blue couch

Tears streaming down flushed cheeks

Green eyes stare back at me

With unconditional presence

I bear witness to being cherished

By those worth loving

Worth remembering

Dancing in the stories

Of my old prayers

Yes

It’s a gift to be remembered

by those

Who could never forget

The Art of Disappearing

The Art of Disappearing

A cup of tea neglected on the kitchen counter

Waiting for the scorching heat to cool down so that

I might sip from its contents

Selfishly, the tea stands as

My longing to be comforted

Yet it sits—

Three hours later

In a cold heap

honey sitting at the bottom of the cup

I’ve forgotten

What it feels like

To be warmed from the inside out

Just as those have forgotten

What it feels like

To be loved by me

And maybe that’s Gods blessing

Allowing myself to be

Forgotten

Reflections on Governors Island

In this world full of mirrors
How clearly does one see themselves
Entertaining copious illusions,
Praying to find comfort by fostering absentmindedness

As clocks tick—
Seconds turning to hours,
Hours to years
Treading closer to ultimate demise
Oneself is a testament to the deaths that occur each moment

This endless search for innocence
In cloves of recollections
But when peering deeply
Reality is none were ever innocent

One can suppose,
Maturity is a shattering of illusions
Calling the soul to witness the horrors of itself
In crystal clear mirrors

Shattered Reflections

In the image of your reflection,

we’d find shattered mirror pieces —

glass poking out the frame’s tension.

Rushing to clear the mess I’d nicked my finger in.

Blood flowing on marble floors —

startled, dazed, a bit unsure.

Its presence ricocheting like a gunshot, point-blank;

dreams crumbling, jolting us all awake.

Throbbing pulsations remind me

of its existence —

lies shattering the world once created.

Beautiful illusions leading one to quietly wonder,

“What was real? What was fake?”

Did I mistrust my judgment?

Was my intuition offline?

Yes — I’m God’s child, emboldened with the divine —

yet divinity became stripped bare in deceit;

half-truths, manipulations, and betrayal all meet.

Cowardice is one’s own personal hell.

Frozen in time and space, inaction becomes a choice itself.

Small internal voices whisper, “What’s wrong with me?”

Shame becoming an insidious, contagious disease.

In the fractal pieces, we witness a thousand reflections —

one face here, another there — infinite ways of deception.

Mirrors culminating truth that can hardly hide,

showing the fragility of the Self inside.

Time passes,

and the finger generates skin cells to mend

all the pieces the mirror tried to end,

scars remaining as a lesson of the horrors when

lies become the identity we live in.

Not Digestible

I am not digestible

Not sweet tea with

Four cups of sugar and a squeeze of lemon

Helping the medicine go down

She’s full bodied gin

Swallowed with a hymn and a prayer

Praying the demons don’t win

Full bodied convulsions

Chanting to avoid shattering into pieces prematurely

Leaving me high and dry

A trip cancelled just as the tickets were purchased

Seats booked

An orgasm right there…no damnit right there

Beads on foreheads bubble as we seek to match

Tempos shifting in rushed, frantic pace

Impatience snatching sweet release, disappointment on my face

Brimming with wanton in a cup overflowed

Where the fuck is the ecstasy I’m owed?

Not digestible

Not here to soothe brows with

Gentle balming caresses

Cute little nothings that leave my body hallowed and wanting

Screaming to be filled

Please fill me up with something

Not meant for overconsumption

Pick my flowers intentionally,

or the thorns might bite

Blood drops like sweet reparations

For raping my petals

To steal my light

Treat me delicately

Hold on to subtle curves with a feather light touch

Before the dove takes flight again

Experience is the teacher

That reminds us

How bittersweet moments are

Before they reach their end

I’m not here to be digested.

Nor consumed

Ask those who have passed by

Memorials for all the empty rooms

Forsaken without my presence.

Never able to be digested.

But I—

I’m the perfect size. Perfect shape

Perfect volume. Perfect taste

Absolutely holy. Utterly whole

Goddess woman with a whole lot of soul

Not swallowed hastily

but sipped in reverence

Eyes closed, head tipped back

In drunken presence

Frighteningly ethereal. Deeply divine

Internal medicine

So irrevocably moving

It became my deliverance