This blog is dedicated to all things woman. I share my poetry, personal essays, motherhood experiences, products I love, and sprinkle in love & dating advice. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
She didn’t quite walk
over the cracked cement, broken glass, and used condoms.
She floated from Saint Nicholas to Madison Avenue.
East Side, West Side, Uptown, Downtown,
with feet never touching the ground
round town, ho town, sundown, touchdown
La bruja was visible.
Praying for the invisible to strut out of Sing Sing,
march out of Attica, and float out Fishkill.
She was eating mangu in the morning with Malcolm X,
chewing on cigars guerilla style with Che Guevara for lunchtime,
and sipping on champagne with Nelson Mandela for dinner.
She did not have to rub her temples, eat fire ants, ring alarms, burn sage, or wear a fancy robe. Magic was part of her destination, a language that required no translation, her translucent borders, her social security number, her place of birth and her time of death.
Santeria wrapped her up as a baby like a satin blanket, got the red out of her eyes like Visine,and smacked oxygen like an inhaler when she lacked breath: a full blown asthmatic.
Respira Respira
It was automatic like suffering is to the mother of a Singapore whore,
Like the stench of bronzed piss is to a subway rider.
She was born to see these things,
born to tell time during New York City summer blackouts,
to pick up direction from a passing scent,
and read peoples palms, coffee stains, and intentions.
She couldn’t work miracles but miracles worked with her,
she negotiated with dope fiends that were shooting up on the clouds,
talked the suicidal husbands off the George Washington Bridge,
and pleaded with the pretty girls to spread college dreams not their legs.
She rose up from the earth’s crust like a phoenix,
caught lightning bolts from Chango like Frisbees,
and swam alongside her mother Yemeya like two glow-in-the-dark mermaids.
And to experience her was to be born into her. We all fell in love.
Porque tu me hiciste brujeria
totally jonesing with her bluest light, her sweetest pineapple, and all the heaven
and all the hell and all the dust that twirled inside of her.
This is me handing you the knife/
This is you fronting like you don’t want it/
Pero tabien papito/ I still love you/
in dirty desperation/ like the Mexicanas
do in novelas/ This is how we Nuyoricans
make love/ with cigarette breaths/metro card
swipes/ and Trump stained matresses/
Here Cabron, this is the knife you use to peel/
the zing off of oranges/ the skin off
of pendejas like me who write poems/
and fuck/ instead of treating sadness/
with gun toting PHD holders/
Here/ take this knife/
peel off my skin/
harvest my organs/
Because I know you/
better than/
you know
yourself.
Written by: Maria Billini
(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)
When the police officer asks, who struck first, you will lay all the blame on me. You will look him in the eyes with a concrete certainty and tell him what a jealous woman I am, how I sprinkle hot sauce on everything, and walk around with a vaginal forest fire that cannot be extinguished. He will demand to know why don’t you just leave her? Your reply is always the same. “Who else is going to love me the way she does.”
When the police officer asks, who struck first, I will lay all the blame on you. I will look him in the eyes with a concrete certainty and tell him what a jealous man you are, how you sprinkle cocaine on everything, and walk around with a grenade in your pocket that cannot be unpinned. He will demand to know why don’t you just leave him? My reply is always the same. “Who else is going to love him the way I do?”
Written by: Maria Billini
(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)
Image: By artists Irina & Silviu Székely Opphavsrett
I sit next to you a disheveled freak/
Seatbelt unbuckled/ shoe laces unknuckled/
A war casualty with no rebuttal/
I want to tell you that I’m sorry/
Run my finger across your denim lap/
Find pieces of me intertwined in the lint of your smallest
pocket/ I want to steal your eyes
from the rearview mirror/ and convince you
that I’m worth a second meal/ We were standing
in the elevator under buzzing neon lights/
You telling a story/ I embellished in laughter/
watching god peak from your smile/ Every excuse
to touch you/ was an excuse to touch you/ The bell dings
and people spill into the elevator/ We are now laughing harder/
Dirty martini breaths and sex on our minds/ I call you by another
name/ a nevermind mistake/that silent elevator is now this silent drive/
Neither of us knowing the destination/ I’m sorry/
I whisper in my sobered hum/ as you whoosh
by the mile marker and dead raccoon.
Written by: Maria Billini
(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)
You tell me I am all Soprano
dipped in a peach Billini.
This is how you describe me.
This is how you give me face and body.
This is how you mold me
with moist words
like red clay from the earth.
You finger me into form
and ruin me with your love.
Who am I but just a passing silhouette
in the two super moons
you call eyes,
and a weeping target
to the loaded weapon
you call a mouth.
Your talk is always loud
like you’re fighting a war
that doesn’t belong to you.
I want to hold your face in my hands
and celebrate the endangered species
we call our relationship
before it goes extinct.
Written by: Maria Billini
(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)
I think if we had time–
more time– together
I think we could be like astronauts in conversation
exploring endlessly in our blackness
until we found rogue planets
sharing our mutual universes
where we could rest and share secrets
in a void without fears of other ears
unwanted yet always listening.
I think if we could find that planet
I could tell you more about my life:
share my pain with you like marker on your life map
outlining minefields for you to avoid,
and share my joy with you like lines,
highlighting paths, flower fields for you to wander.
And maybe learn to be a braver speaker with you
as I learn to be a better listener.
For now,
we are both stuck on solid earth
but I can still hear you, Sister,
laughing through your tears
with Sisters on the broken bed
coaching you on how to crush
the men in your life
like insects.
On the cracked porcelain of the brooklyn toilet,
Carla Maria, my Sister, the pretty one
with bitch eyebrows and sweetheart lips
taught me with makeup
the mathematics of beauty,
how to divide a woman into her parts
subtract from her each flaw
and imperfection
to find her sum
to know her worth.
There’s a big move coming up in my life. Those who truly know me know that moving has never been simple for me. Its never been just the physical movement of my belongings from one place to another, or similarly the movement of my self from one neighborhood to a new one. Moving has always symbolized a new chapter and the end of an era. Moving has been letting go, saying goodbye, facing new challenges, and experiencing new adventures.
Today I sit here in the apartment that my son grew up in. The same place he uttered his first word, “dada” yes I know, “mama” took way longer. I’m sitting in the same place I had his first birthday, where he took his first steps, first haircut, first dance moves. The same place I cried myself to sleep when I found out my father died, followed by my grandmother’s death months later. It was the place I said I would never return to, “never say never” is what people say. Yet, here I am. Five years ago, I came back with my son in tow, a small infant at that time, with my fears and post partum depression dismantling all that I had once held as normal. Soaked in the unknown virtues of motherhood and yearning to be back with my family; I came back eager to soak up all the knowledge that mami, (a single mother of six) had to offer. Her best advice was and still is, “Disfruta tu hijo, que este momento no vuelve.” So I did just that and submersed myself in all the little miracles my son offered me daily. I was his personal paparazzi, and have hundreds of photos and videos to prove it. I lived in the moment and saw him grow right before my eyes. I came back to these familiar Brighton streets, the smell of the beach I had grown up in, a love-hate relationship with this neighborhood that no longer felt as familiar. I got to enjoy my grandmother’s last few months on this planet and see her hold my son. Something both my pops and grandfather never got the chance to do. Shit happens for a reason.
Soon, I will be saying goodbye to this place. Like I’ve said goodbye to so many other places that were special to me for other reasons. It is truly a bittersweet tango, a wrestling of my yearning, an inner tug and pull. These places I left knowing instantly that I would never return to, and if I did return it would never be or feel the same again.
I’ve moved a lot in my life. Mami moved us a few times when I was kid. Back and forth, back and forth. She would always say, “el cambio es parte de la vida.” I hated it, but she was right. Change is an inevitable part of life and with that change people move. And so we moved and moved and moved from place to place, state to state, city to city, borough to borough.
My first memories of a home are pretty dope. It was just me and mami, my brother was small. I remember my father being present, coming home throwing down his plate of arroz con habichuela, pollo guisado, maduros with a side of aguacate. The most perfectly green and ripe aguacate you could ever hope to see. He would moan with every delicious bite and suck chicken bones dry. I used to watch him enjoy his food and think that’s how a man should eat. I remember my parents either dancing or fighting. There was never an in between, I mean I don’t remember them watching television together or talking about the weather. They were always an intense sight to behold.
We lived in a tiny apartment on 191st street and Wadsworth. The floors were red oak, always shining in Mistolin and smelling like pine oil. There was a giant wooden wall of bookshelves that towered from the floor to the ceiling. This bookshelf housed mami’s beloved books of poesía, our encyclopedias, (we had 2 collections) and papi’s massive medical textbooks. It was a tiny apartment, with a heavy red steel door that one day while playing almost took my bottom lip straight off, I still have the scar to prove it. There were popcorn ceilings, except in the bedroom. Where I remember staring at the ceiling while laying with my mom, looking at the lines and her pointing out all these majestic figures that appeared within the cracks of paint. There was a beautiful princess with a gorgeous gown wearing a crown, then a disfigured monster, with a massive nose and scary eyes living in a cave, a bird with a long elaborate feathery tail, and what appeared to be a knight riding a stallion yielding a grand sword. She would point to these figures and ask me, “Keka, que ves alli? Qué te parece a ti?” We would go back and forth sharing what we saw, the way you stare at clouds forming shapes in the sky. We found ways to be happy.
There was music, lots of music all the time. Music played on our stereo, music blasted from cars zooming by, from fire-escapes, and in bodegas and restaurants that made you feel like you were stepping into a discoteca. There were people that looked like us. Unlike here in Brighton where most don’t look like me. People who had traveled to this city from the same island that my mother and father had come from. People that ate plátanos, spoke Spanish, danced merengue, and smiled at you when you entered the corner bodega. We lived in Washington Heights in the eighties. My father was a young doctor and mami was the most beautiful woman my eyes had ever seen. I haven’t seen her glow that way since we moved from there.
Our building was like a big famila. We were more than vecinos. We were birthday parties, Nintendo maniacs, gossiping housewives, funny Saturday nights, barajas and brujas, primos y primas, poetas y bachateros. We were alive and blending and becoming a new set of Americanos. We were first generation of American-Dominicans growing up with our mother’s who still had their dreams and their toes firmly set on the sands of playa Boca Chica y Juan Dolio. But you couldn’t help but to be mesmerized by the concrete jungle and all the players on Saint Nicholas avenue. After all is was the eighties, at the height of the crack epidemic. The city was changing and all the jodedores, the crackeros, the negociantes, and the men that had more labia than a library were in full pursuit. The mujeriegos and their queridas, the nosy viejas and the horny viejos all waved hello and had a refrain for the day. It was the old school Dominicans versus the nuyorminicans. There was danger, sex, drugs, and excitement in that hood. There was love too. Lots of it. Don’t get me wrong. But that love wasn’t enough to keep my mom there. So she moved us to Brighton Beach, to be near her mom, where I’d spend most of my years going to school, even though years later destiny would have me right back there. In the heights, right where I had started.
Destiny is a funny part of moving. Sometimes we move without planning or ever expecting that move. Sometimes moving is our only choice. We move to survive, or to escape a bad memory. We move out of necessity, to change the page, or to hit the reset button. We move for love, to pursue love, keep love or maintain love. We move for opportunity, for a change of scenery. We move back to what we know, or away from what we know. We move to make sense out of life. Sometimes we move in search of something without even knowing what that something is.
Moving molds us in ways that being stationary does not. I always wanted to be one of those people who grew up and lived in the same place all their life. Its like the show Cheers, when you walk down the street and everybody knows your name. It’s a stability I’ve never known. It is being a part of a place, a community, an unspoken family or a people in such an intimate way. People who move often don’t have that. We belong to many places, and people, and instances, and lifetimes.
What I do have from this life of movement is the uncanny ability to adapt to my surroundings. I can come to a new place and reinvent myself, make new friends, learn the routine, find new spots that bring me peace and renew my senses, and find the strength to make this new world, this new shelter, feel like home again. So yes, I am a woman of many homes, of many places, and languages, and faces, and moments that all come together to make up this great big life that I have lived. I guess that’s the way I make peace with this.
Brighton beach had its charm, we had good times there too growing up with my grandparents, aunts and uncles’, having primos’ visit during and holidays and summer breaks. Our weekends were consumed by Saturdays on the beach, park visits, and summers in Coney Island. It was a nice way to grow up.
Then we moved to Fort Lee. These were my rebellious teenage years. My hardest move to date. It was quite the transition. A wealthy snobby town that slept on the edge of Jersey kissing the heights via the Hudson river. Fort Lee was just a hop and skip away from the exciting concrete dance floor I had left as a small girl. So I hopped and skipped. Back and forth. Escaping until I felt like I could breathe again. The George Washington bridge became my best friend. I learned her trails and paths, her highs and lows, her best views, and the best time to cross her. Fort lee was just a house, it never felt like home. It was my first real boyfriend, my first heartbreak. It was sneaking out of my window, jumping fences, and leaping over ponds. It was prison, deportation, and learning the truth about my father. It was Hector Lavoe and Marc Anthony, and the death of Aaliyah, Biggie and Pac. It was the 90’s and the world was changing yet again. It was breaking the rules, and playing with fire, cutting school, and dancing, and making money, and falling for the bad boys because the good ones’ bored me. It was breaking hearts and not giving a fuck because I had been broken too. It was coming into my womanhood and learning how to fight and stand up for myself in ways I had never done before.
Then there was Kissimmee Florida, a humid hell that drove me insane. So at 17, I moved myself as a teenager, against my mother’s wishes, against my own fears and hesitation. I moved and moved and moved. I came back to Manhattan with the famous 5 dollars in my pocket, and worked my ass off, and pursued a new love that was never love, and hustled till I dropped. It was moving to the Bronx, and Jersey, and back to the heights, renting rooms, sharing bathrooms and kitchens, and hiding my C-Town compra’s from roommates that got the munchies after smoking haze all day. It was borrowing sofa’s for the night, summer park benches, it was Monique and I in her Jersey adventures, and back to the Heights, every inch of the heights and now on to Harlem. It was dating one loser after the other and not truly loving any of them except for the one who taught me that not all love looks and feels the same. Sometimes love is ugly, just like the move, just like the change that comes with the move.
During that time my moves were equivalent to breakups. It was the way I ended a relationship, or mourned one. Some women get a new hairstyle after a break up, I would move to a new place, avoiding parts of the city that reeked of my ex’s. Places that had once been my favorite getaway had now become emotional landmines. And so I would move, fall in love with new parts of the city and wait till the scent wore off before revisiting the places that bad love had ruined previously.
Once I had graduated college and had a steady job I got my single lady pad in the Fordham Road section of the Bronx and quickly moved my sister in. It was our pink boom-boom room. A tiny, shitty apartment, but still all ours. Every time I visited my mom and grandmother in Brooklyn, they would go on and on with the same song and dance, “Ay mija cuando tu te vas a salir de ahi? El Bronx esta demasiado peligroso. Mira ponte a oir las noticias." I would look at them and the fear in their eyes, and laugh, “Lo sé mami… Lo sé mamá… No se preocupen, yo soy una tigera.” Just to make them laugh and relax. They were right though. It wasn’t the safest place to live but it was ours in the meantime. It was poetry, and magic, and single living, and poverty and riches, and self realization. It was bachata dancing, and smoking hookah, and kissing under traffic lights, it was writing till my fingers went numb, it was sisterhood, and drums, saxophones, and piano keys. It was sex and the city, purging old loves, it was finalizing the kind of kick ass woman I wanted to be. It was the end of many friendships that were artificial, and the beginning of some new awesome connections. It was where I met my now husband. It was learning to be still and learning to let go. I became pregnant while living there and all of a sudden I felt like that wasn’t home anymore.
One day with my son, who was a newborn at the time strapped to me (kangaroo style), I decided to walk my dog. It was about nine in the morning, a beautiful summer day and here I was surrounded by dirty needles, giant mounds of dog shit, used condoms, and football playing transvestites prostituting just up the corner from me in broad daylight. I think its moments like that, when moving becomes instinctual. It is those moments that the art of movement becomes an urgent need. I remember I was so grossed out that my dog had scooped a condom into his mouth, and spit it out after I frantically yelled at him. I ran my ass home, crying baby and all, called mami and told her, “I got to move ASAP, I cannot raise my kid here.” Thirty days later I was out and moving into what is now the living room where I’m typing this.
So here I am now anticipating this next move that will happen in a couple of months. A little sad to be leaving my favorite vecina, my mom and best friend, but excited for what the future holds. I’ve come full circle. This time the move is so much different from any other time I’ve moved. It is a move that has been in the works for the last three years. It is a move that has required so much teamwork between my husband and I. A move that pushed us to learn, and educate ourselves, and knock on many doors, and meet so many people. So many rejections, and losses, and failed attempts, but we made it happen in one of the most difficult states, my beloved New York. We are finally here! We bought our first house. A house that we will fix, and design, and make our own.
So to say that I’m feeling nostalgic is an understatement. I’m holding space for all those places that held space for me when I needed it most. I’m paying tribute to all the addresses that I called home, that sheltered me during thunderstorms, the walls that kept my secrets, the kitchens that fed my soul, the living rooms that witnessed my poems and music unravel, the bedrooms that cradled me during break ups, and the ceilings that became hidden works of art. Thank you to all those places, some humble, some beautiful, some borrowed, some mine, some far, others near, some quiet and peaceful, others loud and dangerous. I am grateful for each move was growth, each home, a chapter so lovely and all mine.
Written by: Maria Billini
(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)
Getting my three year old to eat healthy has been and still is tricky. It took a lot of patience and trial and error to figure out what worked best for my son while still maintaining the peace and my sanity. It was a tug of war that often time led to me giving in and a cranky toddler protesting firmly.
Luckily I’ve found ways to sneak healthy foods in without depriving him of yummy tasting treats he likes. He recently started daycare at the Brooklyn College Early Childhood Center and is blossoming in school. Yes, I’m a proud mama. And luckily for me they provide him with an amazing menu that balances out healthy meals for breakfast and lunch. Check it out below.
However since he is there for a longer day I have to pack additional snacks and here is how I deliver the healthy goods without sacrificing little guy’s taste buds.
1. Make eating fun!
First I incorporate his personality during mealtimes. If you’re toddler is at home you can do this with child themed plates that showcase their favorite cartoon character. To ease his transition into school and now eating on his own without my encouragement or supervision I decided to buy him a lunch box that had his favorite cartoon which at the moment is PJ Masks. I found a great one on amazon for 12 bucks. Santino loved it.
Amazon has a great selection of lunch boxes for younger kids in an assortment of colors and cartoon characters for boys and girls. Ranging from $9.00 to about $15.00.
2. Find their favorite fruit.
It took a while but my son eventually warmed up to fruits, I’m still working on veggies. We tried plenty. Grapes were a fail and watery fruits like watermelon and some berries fell flat.
But he loves bananas, strawberries, apples, and blueberries. I buy the bananas green so they last throughout the span of a week. Figure out what they love and make it a daily staple. Because once you have them used to eating fruit you want them to continue this positive eating habit.
3. Dont forget the probiotics.
I always add yogurt with probiotics to keep Santino’s immunity and digestive health on track. La yogurt provides probiotic options that are rich in vitamins, low sugar, low fat, and in a large variety of delicious flavors.
4. It’s okay to cheat a little.
I’m all for letting my kid be a kid. I don't stop my son from enjoying candy, sweets, and the occasional happy meal. I feel that when you're young, healthy and growing is when you should be eating all those fun things. But of course everything in moderation. So I don't skip the sweets I just try to keep them on the healthier side. So if your child doesn't like fruits maybe add apple sauce, raisins or craisins as a snack. Look for those with no high fructose corn syrup if possible. I throw both in. And I buy the minis because I know he won't fully eat the larger containers and therefore I avoid having leftovers going bad.
Fruits snacks are a great option also. I prefer the Welch’s fruit snacks but there are also some organic options out there with less refined sugars. Also, don't forget to add a juice box, shop the 100% juice brands they pack more vitamins and less sugars.
5. Bring on the crunch.
Finally I add something crunchy like gold fish crackers or the Keebler sandwich crackers. Something to add texture and change up the routine. Choose the one that works best for your child. Once I am done his packed lunch box looks like this with of course alternating flavors, fruits and snacks throughout the week.
Kids can be picky eaters. That is a fact. Our most important job as parents is to make it fun, keep the variety going, and teach them that eating healthy can still be delicious. And as they say in the Dominican Republic, right before delving into a yummy meal, Buen provecho!
Valentine’s Day Blues: How to Celebrate on Your Terms.
After a recent conversation with a girlfriend of mine, I was reminded of my love-hate relationship with Valentine’s Day. I sat there listening as she complained about the upcoming holiday and how she couldn't wait for the 14th of February to pass. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend and was not in the mood to watch New York couples prancing around celebrating their undying love. Her melancholy instantly brought me back to memories of being in my twenties, dreading the over commercialized love day, that embarked on my city staining it with all these horrible hues of red and pink. It was terrible! I suffocating in oceans of flowers as this chocolate dipped disaster we all have come to know as Valentine’s Day wreaked its commercial havoc. Okay, okay I’m exaggerating a bit for dramatic flare. But this holiday had somehow become an unnecessary pressure I placed on myself If I was single or on whoever I was dating at the time if I wasn't single.
It was a day that all these declarative not to mention expensive acts of love were expected and almost demanded of me and or my guy. To be single was torture during the V-Day madness. It was a painful reminder of my single status and made me yearn to be able to find someone to share this day with.
Now having someone did not make the day easier either. No, it made it suspenseful borderline stressful. What am I going to wear? What should I get him? What will he get me? What if he doesn't get me anything? Does that mean something? Should I dump him if he doesn't? What will my family and friends think? What is everyone else doing on this dreadful day? Yes, it’s pathetic and humiliating to think that at one point all of us allowed this holiday to consume us this way.
This day dedicated solely the celebration of love was about anything but love in my young fragile mind. I knew that I had to change that and quickly remind myself of all the different kinds of love there are, and how I should celebrate these amazing ways to love on my terms, not just on Valentine’s Day, but every single day. So here are a few tricks to not only survive, but enjoy Valentine’s Day your way!
1. Don't think of it as a holiday think of it as another day to show love:
The word holiday often time is associated with stress. Its a time to get a million things done in very little time while putting yourself last. Think of Valentine’s Day as just another day to do something nice for yourself or some else to show how much you care.
2. Forget buying things but if you must spend money buy an experience.
A nice outfit, a pricey bottle of champagne, an elaborate floral arrangement or dinner at an expensive restaurant are all nice but fleeting. If you must spend money on Valentines day, invest in a experience that will become a life long memory. A paint and sip event in which you get to take home your manmade masterpiece, record a song together, travel to a new exotic location, check out a romantic open mic, or visit a planetarium to explore the constellations of lovers. These experiences will be money well spent and become memories that will last forever.
3. Valentines Day is not just for lovers or couples.
The best celebrations of love I’ve participated in usually did not involve lovers or boyfriends. It was those Christmas mornings surrounded by family members or the afternoons we celebrated Mother’s Day surrounded by flowers as we sat on my grandmothers bed exchanging stories and jokes. So if you are a lucky enough to be a single lady on the prowl during this Valentine’s Day, make sure you celebrate all those other awesome people that hold a piece of you. Whether it be your mom, sister, a best friend, a friendly neighbor, an amazing mentor, or your lovable children. Celebrate their love and remind them how much they mean to you.
4. Love yourself first.
How can you celebrate loving others if you don't love yourself first. So on this day whether you're single or not, going out to celebrate or staying in and making it a movie night. Do something for yourself first.Take a long scenic walk, write in your journal, soak in a bubble bath, go get that facial or manicure you've been wanting, call up an old friend. Do whatever it takes to make yourself happy. Because what better love to celebrate than self love!
Sidenote: This Valentine’s day was so far the best I’ve ever had. I’ll tell you why. I didn't do anything extraordinary, or get gifted diamonds or a fancy edible arrangement. I didn’t get all dressed up just to sit at a loud and packed restaurant with my husband. It was simple and low key. A night of feel good movies, a yummy home cooked meal, and cuddling with my boys. But the very best part of it all was receiving the first handmade Valentine’s Day card from my three year old son, (as pictured above) and having him rush to hug me and wish me a “Happy Valentine’s Day Mama” in his broken toddler english. That, ladies and gentleman, I cannot lie made my entire year! Because those are the little moments, that are saturated in warmth that make you believe in the magic of love. That’s how you celebrate Valentine’s Day, honoring love. Real Love. Word.
She fucks you in secret
because everyone hates you.
Because she secretly hates you too.
It’s always the same,
late night taxis that lead to
empty warehouses that
house your bones, pills and fears.
Your body is her home.
You should fear her
unquenchable thirst
to be somebody
other more
than a just a body
that nobody
will ever love.
She writes poems
that forget to apologize
as you busy yourself
with countless apologies
for trying to fuck
that Instagram chick
with no vocabulary.
Slight vegan man
with bland personality
adjusting your cock,
readjusting your voice.
Your words are a chariot of lies
as you sit in her shadow
disappearing into comas
that smell like you.
I watch her now
dress in the dark.
She tip toes out into foggy nights
to lay nudity unto you,
unto the bony cage that
shelters your jagged brown heart
all while hating you
and herself too.
Written by: Maria Billini
(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)
