I ask too much from people
who don’t know to love themselves.
It all starts with a request: mutual respect.
I erect my boundaries,
I pray they stand against the moon and tide,
I know it won’t last—nothing human made
will every last underneath the might of God.
But still, I wish, I pray, I daydream of better days
filled with fields of daffodils and lilies.
it’s when I open the gate,
I regret being vulnerable again and again.
It’s crumbles beneath my feet—
the expectation of meeting my equal.
Having my needs met without opening my lips.
Instead, I claw open my mouth and screech.
Some call me a banshee, others call me a door mat.
I scream until the souls return to their bodies,
withering away with every note.
How can I go on, giving away pieces of myself
when no one recuperates? I’ve been kind, gentle,
patient, soft, yielding enough to not intimidate those around me.
There’s a tigress inside me ready to roar and hiss, but damn it,
you’re not ready for this level of realness.
Im psychotic. Ethereal, Otherworldly.
A puzzle piece too jagged and twisted to ever fit.
It’s laughable to even dream of fitting in.
To expect anyone to understand. Anyone.
Hushed noises—crashing waves,
Cicadas brushing against you ear,
woodland creatures galloping across the forest floor—
I fall to my knees, head loose like a noose.
I pray, teeth digging into the earth
while my body is pelted with rain.
If I’m alone, why was I given arms to hold and embrace?
Fingers to caress and tickle. Lips to pucker and kiss.
A heart that beats too loud into this heavy chest;
a twisted creatures damned to earth for Heaven’s enjoyment.
We call heaven home but why are we tethered to this Hell?
Why does sin taste sweeter than wine? Headier than sex?
Why do I want to paint my body with scars and split into two?
Who will answer my prayers when the curtains close
and the mirror reveals not one demon but two?
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 