(2014)
To be a true artist Must they be recluses Crazy mad or sick Or even better dead Show me a healthy artist
My poems are short Written at night In my head I wake at dawn Shake my memory
A fresh faced country girl Who pioneers on her bicycle Catches the eye Of a transplant from Houston Love begins through letters
¿Te duele Cuándo piques tu dedo? No Lo hago por pura diversión Lo que duele
Her fingernails Natural Long Pointed On fingers
I had it all In my head And then I said Words I do not know which ones
My pump Constant companion Of my disease My sensor Resembles a feeding
My objective is selfish Not to share or be heard To get it out and move on No one seems to hear my pain No one seems to feel my pain
Would I rather be A younger me? More productive Stronger Would i have to give up
I’m watching a woman in a bikini In great shape with a swollen bell… Play with her puppy named Gatsby A Hispanic family comes The little girl dips her feet in
Ask any female Love Is in the details I love you Three greatest words
I will be Forever in debt To my mother Any gift Would come up short
My soft spot My sweet boy I’d do anything for Who convinced me Little boys are the best
My body is perfect —ly spotted The white spots I tell myself Are my Bambi spots
I am a consumer Female Twenties I buy Cheap clothes and lattes