She reminds you of Heaven
Hair like bronze statues, skin gold like pyramids in Egypt
You fancy her
Took time to admire curves that your hands just can’t quite seem
to get enough of
Her voice sounds like ice cream trucks Mid-July, Chicago Sunday afternoons
you run to her.
Tell her that she is salvation and I like the sun
If I did not cause so much damage then you’d have no reason for her company
but even in my destruction I bring to you light
How come you don’t appreciate me?
You must look at her with the same eyes that soldiers view God before a clean battle
but will not save you, she does not love you
Only desires your attention on occasions you mean nothing to her
but everything to me
Silly boy chasing that loose gravel upon the stream
Does my heart not mean anything to you?
Are you not satisfied with the gourmet meal place before you at the table or has
your pallet grown bored with my likings
You don’t want her you just want anything that’s outside of you normality anything that reminds
you that you're not with me
You want to forget home
Like so many lost boys before you, she is a 3 am New York alley
you’ve heard tales of her terror but bored with the sidewalks you explore her
Blind and unarmed snatched away from my hands
How come you don’t allow me to keep you warm
You grow bored with yourself so you play with sins and fire even your demons are
afraid that you might make the wrong decision
You fear my touch because it is evident that good things do exist
Do you feel that hole beneath your ribcage… it is evident that I exist?
But you would much rather have me in stories ten years from now as the one who got away
instead of the one who bares your children
Do you not find me motherly enough?
Chase after what you can't have as stepping stones to masculinity
Define your manhood through wounded bodies that lay beneath your bed sheets
And I stand outside your bedroom door… waiting
ABOUT THE AUTHOR | NaTosha Devon
I am Na’Tosha De’Von, MFA actor and published poet. I originate from Chicago IL, raised in Mississippi. I believe that the purpose of my art is to expose and heal. In my mind, I would like to think that the first words I ever spoke were in the form of a metaphor. With that, I acknowledge the power of words. How they tend to make me feel, how my words make others feel. Sometimes they’re flowers, sometimes daggers, others are just empty thoughts. Due to the exposing, each poem that I create and share with you will have a tendency to leave a mark, petals or bruises you decide. However, in the mist, find healing.
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