Why do I love you?

“Why do I love you?” she asks his reflection in the mirror as she folds the hand towel over a pile of ice and he apologizes again and again, promising to never hit her again for the fourth time this month.

Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Today’s prompt is “start with ‘why.’”

What I was listening to while I wrote this:

Blind date

Am I boring? I’d like to think I’m enjoyable company, but when he asks me what I like to do for fun, I suddenly draw a blank.

“I like movies.”

“Who’s your favorite director?”

Wow. What is he, a film critic? Who asks that question?

I search my mind for movies I’ve seen recently, then blurt, “Christopher Nolan.”


No, not really. I’ve seen Batman and Inception, but God help me if he asks me to explain Tenet.

“What do you think of his directorial style?”

Dammit! Why didn’t I say Jordan Peele?

Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Today’s prompt is “board/bored.” Does “boring” count?

Compliment – English #frapalymo

Men don’t compliment anymore.
You’re beautiful;
You have an amazing smile;
You’re eyes sparkle in the sunlight;

Those words of adoration
Don’t exist—
Only barks from backseats of passing
Buicks as I cross the street, and
Ass grabs on sidewalks from
Horny teenagers drinking
Fruit juice wrapped in
Brown paper bags.


Today’s poem is a combination of Stream of Consciousness Saturday and #frapalymo. The prompt for SoCS is compliment/complement. Today’s prompt for #frapalymo is “write a poem about the city.” Now, have at it!


SoCS: Decomposed

I awake with feces on my hand.
A decomposed lover lies next to me.

Eyes no life—sliding down
the sides of his face—
stare at me as his bottom
lip juts out and lavender gums
drop canines onto the
excrement-soaked sheets.
His skin clings to the bed
as I roll his body over the edge.

He was alive last night, clamping
his teeth onto my inner thighs,
circling his tongue around my navel,
and lower, lapping me up
until I burst. When he mounted me,
his eyes turned bright green.
Now, they’re gray, falling
from the sockets.

I wipe his sweat from my breasts.
I can’t peel the decayed foreskin inside me.


This is in response to Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Staying in line with the A to Z Challenge, our prompt had to be a word with the prefix “de–.” Extra points for me since my word ended in “–ed”!

Since it’s NaPoWriMo, I decided to give you guys this creepy ass poem. It’s a continuation of a theme I started with another poem that was published in FishFood Magazine earlier this year. I’m thinking about writing a chapbook using this Necro-Lovers theme. What do you think? By the way, I had my 30 days of poetry writing back in January/February with my No Holds Barred Poetry Writing Challenge, so I’m gonna stick to the A to Z Challenge this April. I don’t want to overwhelm myself! 🙂

SoCS: Untwist Your Balls

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Yanna.” That’s what my husband always said to me whenever he thought I was overreacting to something.

When he went to dinner with his female best friend who also happened to be his ex-fiancé, he told me, “It wasn’t a date. We were just catching up. Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Yanna.”

When he stood me up to go drinking with his boys, and I waited on the couch to confront him as soon as he walked through the door, he rolled his eyes and said, “I’m a man. I can’t be up under you all the time. Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Yanna.”

When I went into labor at one in the morning, and he still wasn’t home, he yelled over loud, thumping music into the phone, “That’s just the radio. I’m in the car headed to the hospital now. I’m not gonna miss the birth of my first son. Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Yanna.”

One morning, I woke up to him screaming. I found him on the bathroom floor, naked from the waist down, holding himself. He said they were hurting. I took him to the urgent care clinic, and the doctors kept asking me if I had kicked him in the nuts. I’d always wanted to. Just to see if he was paying attention. But I knew he would just block my foot and say, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Yanna.”

They sent us to the hospital so the doctors there could run an ultrasound. After all those doctor appointments he had missed with me while I was pregnant, he could finally feel how cold that gel was. They took him into emergency surgery when they saw that his left testicle has twisted into a knot, cutting off his circulation. If they didn’t fix it quickly, they would have to remove it.

He went under mumbling, “Don’t let them take my stuff, Yanna.”

They wheeled him into a hospital room an hour later. He was loopy and kept asking me to check, make sure they were both still there. I looked down at my watch and said that I had to go pick up our son from daycare.

Under heavy eyelids, he said, “You’re just gonna leave me?”

I shouldered my purse. “Untwist your balls, Danny.”


Thanks to LindaGHill for the perfect prompt for this week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday: naught/knot/not. My little brother got emergency “twisted balls” surgery this past Tuesday. The poor baby is currently at home with his legs spread out, trying to let them heal. Despite the pain, I’m sure he’s happy they didn’t take his “stuff”!


SoCS: Going in the Grocery Store

We’d been in the supermarket
for over an hour, pushing
two overflowing shopping
carts down the aisles.
I told Ma I really had to go—
the bathrooms were out of order,
the closest McDonald’s across
the four lane road.
“One more thing, baby.”
But one turned to two,
two to three, then four,
five. Soon, I was returning
to the front of the store
not to check out, but
for another cart.
So I pulled down my shorts,
sat in the basket and went,
using her coupon book
as toilet paper.


This is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Today’s prompt: go

SoCS: Rekindling a Forgotten Friendship

We were friends before I fell in love with him, and just in case you are curling your lips to accuse me of being a home-wrecker, I am only sitting in this dimly lit restaurant to rekindle our friendship. But as I wait, the warm, complimentary bread grows cold and hard, the Sprite I ordered for him flat, the ice cubes nearly melted into water. I wave for the waiter to bring my bill, and he guides a woman I’ve never met into the seat across from me, her large breasts sitting atop her protruding, round belly, perfectly visible in the form-fitting, black dress she is wearing. She places her left hand on the edge of the table, and the gold band on her ring finger tells me who she is, the side smirk on her face tells me he is not coming, and the drumming of her fingers on the wood tells me this impromptu reunion is over.


This prose poem is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday This week’s prompt: acquaint and/or friend.


Featured Image: http://www.personalitytutor.com/dinner-table-setting.html

SoCS: No Holds Barred Poetry Writing Challenge: Day 30

She still can’t open her eyes.
I cradle her pink, oval
face in my calloused, black hands.
Paint chips still on my jeans—
finishing a job when I got the call.
Mother extends a blessing hand from the bed,
pink band around her wrist.
Her scratchy voice says Rosa.
The little body cupped in my wide arms wiggles.
Her nose scrunches. Her lips quiver.
She opens her mouth and releases a shrill scream.
My first reaction to the birth of
my precious baby girl—
Her breath stinks.

And I am done with my poetry writing challenge! Yes, I have successfully written a new and original poem every day for 30 days (though I never quite confirmed that 30 days would be the goal). This is also part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Today’s prompt: relative/relativity.


SoCS: Breaking the Attachment

Jessica had her second nervous breakdown last night. The first came when Whitmore told her he didn’t put on a condom and she might be pregnant. Thankfully, her period came three days later. The second nervous breakdown came when he asked her to move in with him and she practically scratched the skin off her forehead.

Instead of checking her into the hospital, Whitmore took her back to his house. He undressed her, tucked her into his bed, and clipped her fingernails. He placed a cool damp washcloth on her bruised, red forehead. Then he took off his clothes, got in the bed with her, and kissed every inch of her body as she slept.

When Jessica woke the next morning, she didn’t know where she was. She didn’t recognize the beige colored walls, the ebony dresser or the flat screen TV on top of it, the queen-sized bed she was lying in—the only other furniture in the room—or the lone window, missing curtains or blinds. Whitmore was lying on top of her, his head resting on her breasts. It was then that she realized she was in his bedroom. She wiggled from underneath him, hoping not to wake him. She was completely naked, and she worried he might have done something to her while she was out. She didn’t think Whitmore was that delusional, but she believed he was smitten enough to try something.

She searched the room for her clothes. The room was empty. The floor void even of lent or a tuft of public hair. She gave up looking and moved for the dresser. She didn’t want to still be there when Whitmore woke up. He would try everything in his power to keep her. She could already hear his excuses…

I’m washing your clothes. Wait for them to dry before you leave.

You’re not well. You fainted at the restaurant. Let me cook you something.

You look so sexy. Don’t put on your clothes. Get back in the bed. I love you.

Jessica put on the first article of clothing she saw: basketball shorts and and t-shirt. She didn’t care that it might have been freezing outside—it was still in the dead of winter—she was dressed enough to catch the city bus back to her apartment. She retrieved three dollars from Whitmore’s wallet and put it back on the dresser, then tiptoed out of the room. In the living room, she found her clothes folded on the couch. On top of them were her flats and her purse. She gathered the jeans, sweater and purse, and put on her shoes.

As she carefully opened the front door, making as little noise as possible, she searched her mind for ways to rid herself of this attachment. Whitmore had become too clingy, too needy, and she couldn’t take it anymore. It was only after she closed the door behind her and walked down the pathway to the street that she realized it was Valentine’s Day.



This is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The prompt: attach/attachment.