Corazon De Julio.
Heart Of July.
An empty anxiety.
It lingers in my arm,
like the first time I staggered across the street
without the amiable squeeze,
of my mother's hand.
I waited on the other side,
for her smile.
Her uneasiness is a poet's suicide.
Isn't that right Ms. I need a MAN to find my woMANhood?
She took the arrows of a god that shits in diapers,
and gently whimpered into my ear.
"Please, Brian, don't leave me naked on this bed."
As if a bitch needs clothes.
I am not your opium of flesh.
I wish you would look at me
and see yourself.
Sans comfort.
Sans effort.
Sans understanding.
And know that there is nothing missing from my heart,
but if I did have a hole in my chest,
trust that you'd be buried six feet under.
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