Day...it doesn't matter

it may not be finished,
but then again neither are we.
Sisters,
God borrowed one
and gave me seven.

We
keep writing poems about you
and the ways that you exist.
I loved you once,
as a reflection.

The most unrecognizable things about you
feel like home
Finding myself
is
getting lost
in foreign places.

Tiptoeing over a bed of nails
is soft
And flowers sting.
It is possible for beautiful things to hurt you.
But I am fearless,
even of trembling
and backing out,
call it inconsistent.

There is a trail to you
and I have paved it
with the ashes of women
who have tricked you
into thinking they were dead before,

that are called crazy
for teetering the way we do,
so fast we call it balance,
and you call it inconsistent

Try to curse us
with the voice we gave you
and we will tell you
"continue to speak for yourself"

I am you,
proven.

Its hard to run away from yourself,
the most complex part about it is
its simple
The sum
rises and falls with you

I saw the sun rise today
Inconsistent

Seven shades of beautiful
All the same
Never standing still
Always motionless

Stretching far past where she thinks herself into
Always wearing the same face
Never changing who she is

Wouldn’t recognize herself if you told her to
She is still questioning if she wants to
Or Why she should listen to you
Or why you are asking her to
as If you are not speaking to yourself

Standing upright
Chest out
Heart exposed
Livelihood fruitful
and growing,
Building like
viney roses,
My the petals on your eyes
and the stems holding a mirror to them

You reflect as a blind woman

With two voices,
with seven,
with one.

Always speaking to yourself
even when you don’t know you do,
even when you don’t mean to
**“...God ain't make no mistake when he put
a woman into your life”

The sun rose today
pretending she didn’t feel the extent of her rays,
And its glowing…
emitting fruitfulness on earth that is her

Looks at herself with an awe that turns into
forgetfulness.
Even mistakes herself
for a man some days
and then pretends she isn’t one.

The son rose today,
and unsurprisingly,
she is calling herself
a woman.
---------------------------
**aja..sigh.gasp.love
that is a-whole-nother
poem
both literally and (ever way it can be) figuratively
myspace.com/madamemonet