In my sorrow, do not ridicule me. Do not seek to question my heart’s sincerity. Do tears not run in mourning? Do I not keep her nestled in the depths of my soul for safe keeping? Am I not desolate in my grieving? Do my own tears not drown me from incessant weeping? Did I not kiss her face tenderly while she was sleeping? The glory of her beauty haunts me unmercifully — and to think love was within my grasp. Eyes behold my countenance as a whole man, because daily I wear the mask; but truthfully, I am deeply wounded and shattered like glass. I seek to be whole again, but every hour I am violently torn asunder again and again, and I am shattered like glass.
Slowly, I inhale her and exhale with a transcendent euphoria. Around me, things fall apart. Days of yesteryear weigh heavily on the frayed threads of my psyche. Slivers of solace are found in every intense release. My mouth waters to please her; the essence of her on my tongue is something that I’ll always remember. A woman fully steeped in her femininity is a polished diamond in exquisite rarity. Her moans of pleasure are the sounds of a wonderful orchestra performing on the bank of a wondrously flowing river. Her kisses quiet the grumbling of my lament. Her breasts envelope me, and I am lost in the depths of sensuality. She rides me. She fucks me — and it takes away the pain. Her unbridled sexuality is my therapy. She switches to reverse cowgirl and looks back at me. Deep pain and eroticism come together and form a beautiful intensity unexplained. Passion heightens; tears stream as sorrow is drawn out of me. Again, positions are switched, and she wraps her legs around me in missionary. Without breaking eye contact, we kiss passionately as she wipes the tears from my eyes. I must give her all that is me — I cannot lie. Eroticism and sorrow are strange bedfellows. I turn her around; she moans with ecstasy. Her face supported by soft white pillows. Again, she looks back at me. Again, I take another dose of her potent therapy. Every euphoric breath that she breathes is my reprieve. Gloss pink peeps through the holes of black heels. I kiss the side of her neck wildly and breathe in the scent of light sprays of Channel N° 5. I exhale the pain with rolling tears and closed eyes. We release together, finding the climax of our pleasure, and I am truly alive. We release together, on our sides; her head turned towards me and her leg draped over mine.
She was a seedling that grew into a beautiful flower;
Born in December, she amazingly bloomed in the winter.
Her petals are bruised because she’s been hurt many times before,
But now she is lovingly watered — and under healing sunlight,
Rich and nurturing soil her long strong roots explore.
With vitriol, some call her whore — but their
Taunts trouble her beautiful and wondrous soul no more.
Radiantly, she towers over them with protective thorns on her stem;
They could never dare to even attempt to hold her ever again.
Beautiful rain falls on her delicate petals, and she is gorgeous.
They revile her publicly, but secretly they are jealous;
They boil in their anger because they could never have her.
Her glory is heavenly — radiantly, she blooms endlessly.
Black roses grow in the space of my heart that was left hollow;
They are rooted in the rich soil of shattered love
And showered daily with a perpetual drizzle of sorrow.
Still, I search for lost parts of my heart that many lovers kept;
But I didn’t know I was so deeply wounded until I was near death
When true love left, and in darkness I sorely wept.
If we should fall, tell the world of our exploits,
the pain in our hearts, and how for so long we survived the dark nights.
Tell them of what we’ve endured here,
the tears, the weeping, for so many years.
Tell them that we’ve loved and have been loved,
but by the third season our hearts were shattered
and the remnants of our loving hearts, scattered.
Tell them of the injustice we have endured here, and of our martyrs.
Tell them of the blood that runs every summer
and the crying voices that hope to conquer;
Tell them of the beauty of our mothers
and the quiet strength of our fathers.
Tell them that we weep and suffer,
but somehow we still survive the coldest winters.
Tell them that twelve judge us with prejudice,
and the color of our skin condemns us.
Tell them of apathetic eyes that watch us with hatred and bias
and the system set up to destroy us.
Tell them of our ancestors who came over on ships
to be enslaved for generations—
In tears, raped, separated and whipped.
Tell them that, at our breaking point we didn’t give a shit,
and we were not afraid of death in our final moments.
Tell them that their bullshit sentiments are meaningless
and they walk around as empty husks, soulless.
Tell them that we gave it everything we had,
and faced our fates with tears of resolve—and boldness.
The shattered pieces of me remain behind and unswept,
Still strewn on the floor where my eyes first wept.
I awake, still broken, wanting to be whole again,
Hoping that my soul will finally mend.
The sorrow of my heart seems to never end.
I keep falling — but not in love again;
I just keep falling,
Cold winds blow through leaves
In the fields where they were hanged,
And innocent blood was shed on trees;
At night, hear the restless souls scream
For blood and vengeance in their dreams.
Oh the emotions that surface
when affectionate fingers
caress still faces in memorable pictures.
Scented candles are lit; tears run after heartfelt kisses.
She lies down, her hair sprawled on white linen in darkness.
If only the dead could hear beautiful utterances
and loving whispers.
In and out of consciousness, before she left, she reached for her son, who wept with his head turned, and in that moment, she released all the pages of her depths, so that even in death, he could hold onto her; and with all the strength she had left, she lovingly whispered three words to him, while wiping away the tears of his weeping, in her last breaths.