Sometimes I get sick
chewing on the ends of dead cigarettes
that worldly minimart sold me,
washing them down with cheap coffee
as my stomach tries to swallow;
instead it's choking on sticky fluid,
contracting into my throat—
but today I'll write it off as detox.

Because tomorrow I'll be sipping my acid cup,
dipping ragged fingers into wet liquor
diluted by false promises,
pushing them far behind my lips
as if to choke
on all this apathy
toward compliance.

Not really.
That would be irresponsible.

So I'll dance again like always,
but the beauty just won't be there;
my feet will blister easier,
burning into the floor
as I'm moving through an empty crowd of people.
I can feel them but they're gone from sight,
or perhaps it's the opposite—
their bodies are tissue and I'm a child
tearing through paper skins.
What's in it for me tonight?

this time is different.
I feel it,
bunching up inside my abdomen
as confusion tumbles from gapped lips,

Fingers crawling south until they're cradiling
the swelling of neonatal impudence
some call a temple,
others decry as the birthplace of slavery;
I can understand,
hate waiting just outside
for a baby to wrap its tiny fingers around.

This is different.

My morning sickness drains,
emptying my body for what it is,
now the vessel of a similar flavored sin
and something darker—
ignorance, hypocrisy, loathsome things
my tongue cuts down
before they greet this newfound soul.

Tonight I'll wretch,
shaking and shivering from being too far gone
in my choice of drink and drug,
sapped by sadness flowing
through my heart from what I'm bearing—
because this babe can see.

There's a woman who feel down the stairs
while her eyes penetrated another world,
too much alcohol in her system,
too much hate,
so she grasped her arms in a struggle of self,
carving bloody proclamations for the world.

Guns are going off;
two men die,
and they're not so different—
on with a wife and three kids,
the other would be married this spring—
but they're both cold now
on the same red soaked battlefield.

A boy raped;
a girl blinded;
a job is lost
and rent is two months behind.

Children tease;
a man is left alone in motel sheets,
a mother found dead under them
while two girls sing a song of supremacy.

The world is swirling with ones like these,
stories and faces slurred
by intoxicated references,
and it makes me want to cry.

But inside I feel a kick
towards new adoration
of life but more—
of living,
breathing and watching the trees change,
people rearranging, finding what is favorite,
the happy things that are real beauty,
fulfilling now matter how empty
we claim them to be,
and this time I finally see.

It is my design to carry love inside of me.