its always wrong ..

i found this .. i guess i knew it was wrong before i knew it was wrong .. its always wrong when no is not enough ..

jan29o4
he arrived
cold heart in my hand
offered me a drink and revealed himself to me
the reality
a jacked up heart w/in a renewed spirit
he could not grasp that his was not mine any longer
he slept in my advantage and tried to take root there
but when the morning rose
i remained silent and all that was left were
puffy cheeks that were there when we began

..a poem written by a poet we met in new york .. she said it right .. she breathed peace and created one more step to moving on .. she reminds me that this fight isn't over ..

WE, THE CHILDREN OF THE SOIL
written by eboni

I am getting sick and tired of being fuckin polite.
There will be no more apologies, "I'm sorry"s or "I
forgive you"'s
Forgiveness is a false virtue.
Only patience remains.
So I lie in wait.
Cataloguing my techniques of slaughter for that one
moment I have deserved.
You and me.
Just us.
We go way back like babies and pacifiers,
like hot peas n' butter,
likes screams and pillows over faces.
Look closely.
Look past the illusion womanhood has granted me.
No closer-
I am still her.
Paten-leather shoes,
Cherry Kool-aid mustache,
Dusty Cheez-Doodle fingertips.
This is where I hold my hatred.
This is where I hide all the battles that aren't worth
fighting anymore.
This is my ugly place,
My angry face,
and these are the 365 prayers I sewed into my cheeks
in the event that God misplaced my cries for
sanctuary.
Sutures sealing a mouth too small to hold you,
Yet just small enough to keep quiet,
as you performed your surgery without the courtesy of
anesthesia.
First incision-
Licked my wounds,
Antiseptic breath stinging,
Eyes watering
I'm FLATLINING/flatlining
Sugaring shut with rust and cum.
One thick jab,
the deepest,
I experienced in technicolor and surround sound/SOUND
3 6's punched into the walls of my womb.
Scarification ritual complete.
Recognize your signature?
Your John Hancock--ed-and-ready for a stick-up,
stealing that one moment that should've been spent on
teenage stupidity or a freshman year memory,
in the backseat with your undergrad prince
when you're still too shy to moan out loud so you just
smile and trust his eyes
and his hands.
And I try so hard.
I asked you politely to let me go and I'm getting sick
and tired of being fuckin polite.
My flesh owes you nothing.
Not even redemption.
I weighed the option of a pistol at your temple,
Pulling the trigger with no question.
Or carving my name in your forehead so that I'm always
on your mind.
Retrieving your sorry dick as a trophy to mount in my
living room so I can tell the story of the monster it
came from over coffee.
But I chose the less friendly approach.
Let Karma do her job.
Let Tomorrow clean up the mess.
Let Faith dissolve the scars.
Oh, you didn't know I was a child of the soil?
That the roots taught me to hold on like my branches
depended on it?
The winds told me to blow through what I got to, to
keep moving.
Learning the various tongues of the ether,
baby girl became a killer or a poet, at best.
My words became weapons,
This poem is my henchman,
Each letter, an assasin,
You are about to be written out of my existence.
They got your phone tapped,
House staked,
Ready to make moves when I say
make.
And as I speak them into fluition,
they take position in alleyways and behind closed
doors.
Assonance, Consonants,
Vowels and Alliteration,
And you may beg and barter for the ownership of your
final breath but I have asked that they take it
slowly.
After all, you have all of eternity to repay me.
Open your eyes,
Look closely.
I am not her anymore.
You have never heard the symphony of these singing
hips,
or the ballad of these breasts.
These are not fists,
they are hands,
and they are sore.
They've been holding onto your for as long as you've
been holding on to me.
And though you are altogether unnecessary,
you have become a brilliant scapegoat.
But I woke up this morning,
Felt my venom stir,
and I couldn't stop exploding
and I won't stop exploding till the last Viking is
left lying
and
All that remains-
My beauty reclaimed.
My body re-formatted to fit safely in the hands of
another man where I might cry or dance or moan like
the 2nd coming of Christ.
I'll never stop fighting.
Us children of the soil have magma in our veins.
No, I'll never stop fighting
But I have to start trusting,
The eyes
The hands
That say
It's over now.