In the Blues

i n t h e b l u e s

he pulled the piece of hair back

taming my ocean of

blue

is not easy

why do you insist to swim

in the blues

he asked

everything that i am

that i touch

breath, eat, and smell

is blue

but he dresses himself in yellow

how could someone

with light dripping

from their fingertips

understand?

it's better than drowning

my dear

i do not reply to

his yellow smile

- b . k . g

Would You?

if you were to paint me

would you use wide, prominent brushes

or small, wispy strokes

would you pick shades of

blue, green, and yellow

red, orange, and pink

or would you completely cover the canvas with

black and white

if you were to paint me

would I be a landscape of a house next to a lake

that you debated putting a deer or two

along its edge

or would I be angry, bolded lines

a chaotic good

a mess of colors and shadows

that when I asked if each stroke was placed thoughtfully

or were they splattered carelessly on

the blank page

you'd laugh at my

wonder

but what if suddenly you noticed

how brightly I laughed

and how passionately I talked

would the painting be of

a burning sun that lit up

the entire room

or a beach with forceful waves

painted so intricately,

I'd want to touch the canvas

so my finger tips could meet

the depths of the sea

or would you paint a scene of a quiet forest with thick trees

and long branches

that matched the deep brown of my irises

if you were to paint me

would you take hours, days, months, or years

would I be your most favorite piece

or the one you felt most pressured to finish

and hated looking at it half-done

so entirely much

that you'd have to hide it in the shadows of your living room

and then maybe every second of your day

would be filled with thoughts of my eyes that seemed to smile,

wondering how could someone possibly

recreate it with paint and a blank canvas

if I asked you to paint me

would you?

- b . k . g

Numbers

one, two, three

angry

red lines

across my arms

my thighs

my stomach

everything that was

soft

is now

rough and

torn

one, two, three

layers of

clothes

they cover

the rough

patches

that i hide

from

you

one

smile

two

eyes

three

times that i

tried to express

my sadness

behind the thin mask

i wore

you are

not to blame

my skin stretches for miles

under these clothes

the journey is

long —

i would

probably be

blind to

the

pain too

- b . k . g

A Lady of Happy

i am happy

i become happy

i will be happy

happy is she

who smiles brightly

at the storm

is she?

the laughter in the wind

which ruffle the tree's

greenest leaves

is she happy

we ask

and her eyes seem

to flash with

humor

because we all know

that the reason the moon

shines and the sun

sets

the sun which paints

a pink blush

against the blue sky

occurs only

because of her

she will be happy

even after the

heavy

burdens

they try to push her

break her down

but she only knows

up

and forward

a happy she

is to be

a woman that

knows when to love

and how

we stand in awe

of her grace

and mercy

towards all

she is

she becomes

she will be

- b . k . g

How Many

please, just tell me

how many words

I need to write

to erase the memory

of your smile

how many thoughts

need to cross my mind

before they are no

longer about you

won't you just

help me

understand

how many steps

up this steep hill

I need to walk

so that

when I look back

I can no longer

see your face

how many tears will

have to escape my eyes

and smear against my skin

from my fingertips

before I will forget

how soft your

hands felt

against my cheeks

how many years

days, and hours

do I need to live

before I'm

finally

free

of

you

- b . k . g

24/7

their mouths are open for business, twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.

i buy their words only because I'm supposed to, and store it in my ears. sometimes the words rot, and the stench wiggles its way into my brain where i keep everything stored.

i try to make sense of the crowdedness, i open my mouth for business a few more hours than the day before and attempt to make some space. they do not buy my words because their ears are rarely open.

my words only hit their faces, and fall into their hearts where love is confused with hate and hate is confused with love.

twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. my words are empty and battered, and my mouth is slowly going out of a business. dust collects on my lips. i put up a for sale sign. no one wants to rent the space or spare a few ears for my worth.

they cannot see my struggle over their thriving businesses based on lies and hurt. my mouth is forced to retire, my mind gradually follows suit. i am wallowing in debt.

their mouths give quantity over quality, twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.

- b . k . g