alternate phrases for being idle

mind desert
unchecked boxes
dark circles under red eyes
blue light of a blank screen
mistook for worship
a devil’s carousel
silence
peeling skin and ripped fingernails
deep exhales into thick air
thoughts
empty pages
overflowing kitchen sink
clicks of your tongue
gotta check those boxes
scroll
heavy bags under distant eyes
pupils glaze over spilled milk
sink is flooding
ticking hands of a clock wait for not you
screen turns off
after hours
two months since those pants were last washed
frozen
three months since you had a good day
another devil’s merry-go-round

idle

deep sighs into thick air

i forgot to —

worship

the boxes drawn in my planner are still —

empty

i forgot the dishes last night my sink might —

overflow

belabored breaths into nothingness

i forgot to —

care

nothing’s there i’m on —

empty

the devil’s mind is an idle playground

or however that goes

i just know it goes

and goes

like a carousel in a —

playground

idol in a

playground

monkey bars and slides in a

playground

bars in a —

playground

i want to sleep

no sighs into stuffy air

just deep breaths

i want to —

sleep

while on my phone because i can’t stop

scrolling

can’t

stop

scrolling

and the sink has over —

flowed

it’s flooding and my pages are still —

empty

my eyes can barely open but i’m not —

sleep

i should

sleep

it’s been two months since i washed my shirt because i’ve been —

sleep

but my eyes can’t close

heavy bags under eyes that can’t close

a devils’ merry-go-round is an idle fantasy

or however that goes

it still goes

the idol goes

and the morning —

goes

and i still need to —

worship

floss

clenching your jaw

like food in your craw

don’t leave that there.

it’ll stain you raw.

with yellow teeth and tears

you hide from your fears

don’t run away from that.

cavities build over the years.

filling up your plate

and questioning your faith

don’t talk like that.

gum disease awaits.

the food was good

and yummy to taste

but they chipped you.

communion was stained.

bread of life was near

but motives were unclear

wrong cup overflowed.

grape juice left a smear.

their tainted prayers

made you aware

you weren’t accepted.

that your kind should beware.

so the food stays

lingers on your tongue

settles between your teeth

they’ve got the wrong one.

you leave the stains there

the cavities you bear

bloody gums from their stares

i’m sorry they hurt you.

floss like you care

that the food is still there

clean between the lines.

God wasn’t the one who left.

Itchy ears

Itchy ears

Can you hear?

I love messing with your skin — cells —

they’re flaky and soft and homey.

Makes me want to build something.

Something flaky and soft and — gooey —

there’s not a lot of space in here.

But I’ll make do in — you —

I’ll make myself a part of you.

Maybe you’ll notice.

Are you hearing me?

I took a ride down your — canal —

the small space filled up quickly.

I’d like to stay a little longer this time

if you’ll let me.

You’re not listening.

You’re trying to kick me out again.

I guess no one told you

not to gift me — cotton —

no, that doesn’t work for me.

Can you hear? Anything?

I got your senses — blocked —

the world around you is muffled.

You pushed me down, littered my home

so I stayed there — hardened —

you didn’t notice.

So I kept your drumset company.

Played with it and — ruptured —

can you hear me now?

Numbers

Do a little math and you’ll get a number.

Add, subtract, find an answer.

.10 is just .1 it just sounds better.

We notice numbers that look like more.

1/10 is a little different when you hear it out loud.

1/10 is .10, which is just .1.

Subtract then add, find the answer.

Let’s hope it’s the answer you’re looking for.

What answer are you looking for?

Common denominator forgets it’s common.

Add zeros, it looks like it changes everything.

Add zeros, it’ll change you.

Do a little math and you’ll be a number.

We don’t see people until they look like more.

.10 is just .1 it just sounds better.

peel off

Have you ever seen a potato peel?

starch decides its skin’s not worth being in anymore

molting like a bird and left bare and paper-white.

or more like beige. like a bland, beige wall

that despises its given color

Have you ever seen a paint chip?

gloss decides its skin’s not worth being in anymore

stripping like a snake, remnant scales litter the foundation.

kind of like cement. a bland, cement block

that fails at being unshakable

Have you ever seen a concrete crack?

sidewalk decides its skin’s not worth being in anymore

shedding like a crab, shell bits stuck to brown soles.

like a brick. a bland, brown brick

as tasteless as a potato.

Maladaptive Daydreamer

He sits at the dining room table.

He cuts it precisely in even rows,

And places the green stuff neatly in the joint paper.

He rolls it carefully,

Licks it, so it stays put,

Twists it at the end,

And brings his BIC lighter close to it for a few seconds enough to spark.

It’s his fix.

He smokes it, and his mood changes.

He’s happier, goofier.

He’s cracking more jokes, he’s smiling more.

His ritual fascinates my prepubescent eyes.

The intricacies, the steps.

I sit on the edge of my tiny twin-sized bed.

I rip a line of paper from one of my empty notebooks.

I roll the paper all the way up until a certain point,

And when I get close to the end,

I lick it, so it could shake.

I finish rolling it

and brought it up to my eyes and moved it right and left.

It’s my shaker.

I talk to it.

I throw it up in the air while running back and forth in the house,

And catch it before it hits the ground.

I roll it in my hands and imagine myself in a different body.

I shake it, and my mood changes.

I’m happier.

More creative.

I’m in music videos and movies and sold-out stages and marrying my celebrity crush.

And then I grow up.

And my mom says

“Stop all that daydreaming!

How much longer are you gonna be shaking that thing?

You’re in high school!

What, are you gonna stop when you get to college?

What about when you get married?”

I look up at her hardened eyes, then back down at the shaker in my hand.

My magical joint suddenly looked like a limp piece of notebook paper to me.

I throw it in the garbage can and look up at my dad.

He sits on the couch silently watching, his eyes glisten with numbness and…disappointment.

He leaves the room and goes to the garage.

My mom stopped him from rolling weed in the house,

So I don’t see him at the dining table anymore.

I know he still continues his ritual, though, because his mood changes.

He smiles.

He cracks jokes.

Jokes are easy.

Fall

Wood comes to life in the fall.

Wind breathes on it.

Wood responds,

With squeaks and groans and

Whistles and tones.

Wind stops for a second.

Wood goes silent

Waiting to receive life again.

Wind is there. I know it, because

Wood talks.

Wood tells me stories about Wind as I

Wait in the cabin.

Wood laughs at

Wind’s jokes and

Wood cries at

Wind’s memories. I listen to

Wood screech, enraptured in

Wind’s wisps as the goosebumps line my arms.

Wood comes to life in the fall.

Wind breathes on it.

Wood creaks with glee.

Don’t be yourself

Don’t be yourself around me.

My mind will tear you apart

my eyes will rip your clothes to shreds

my ears will assume every word you speak is a lie

my lips will mumble rebuttals

my head will tilt in disapproval

my eyebrow will raise to intimidate

you’re not safe with me.

Don’t be yourself around me.

I’ll remember all your faults

the wrong things you spew

the patterns you do

everything that’s wrong with

you.

But be you, boo.

Not true

I will analyze you

until you question you

until you change you

until there’s nothing left of you

there will be nothing

left

you.

the Sun, the Moon, the Stars

I looked in the mirror and examined myself.

I examined my hair. The way each slinky-like strand grew out of my scalp. I never did much with it. I didn’t use gel. I didn’t slick my hair back. My afro was out here. “What are you gonna do with your hair,” my mentor said. I can’t let it be? Is it not enough on its own, without the extras?

“It’s all over the place,” mom said. “You’ll look like Frederick Douglas if you don’t do something with it,” my mentor said. My sister says “fix your edges.” My mom says “define your curl pattern.” I’m pressured to follow these unspoken rules. My black isn’t laid.

But then I remember the Sun; it shines so brightly no one can really look it in the eye. And no one ever tells it to tone it down, or look more presentable. It exists as is, and lights up the whole world. Yea, I’ll be the Sun.

I examined my skin. How my forehead formed mini-mountains since I was 1 year old. How the mountains grew to craters by the time I was 6. How after picking off the tops of the mountains, they scarred over and left an inky spot, traveling to my cheeks.

“You should try these products,” this stranger tells me at the beauty shop, despite me not asking. How does she know I haven’t tried all there is to try by 5 years old?

I have frown lines around my mouth, dark spots on my shoulders. They color my back and neck. I have a wifi signal on my forehead when I raise my unkempt eyebrows. I don’t feel like black beauty. Black apparently don’t crack, but I’m creasing at the seams. My black isn’t smooth.

But then I remember the Moon; the way its craters never stop it from shining in the dark. The thing people marvel at, not when it’s quarter-sized, not when it’s half-way there, but when it’s full, dark spots and all, even causing the wolves to howl at the sight. Yea, I’ll be the Moon.

I examined my body. How my lanky arms stretched past my hips. How my chest expanded wide, erasing any chance for cleavage. How they accompanied my broad shoulders. How my torso stagnated and my legs took up the rest of the space. I turn around and take a look at my backside. Meh.

“You should eat more,” my mom said. “When you turn you disappear,” my mentor said. They say black girls are thick but I think my hair took that title instead and left close to nothing for the rest of me. My black isn’t curvy.

But then I remember the Stars; these tiny emblems of light in the sky that glory in their small stature. They don’t try to be the biggest or to shine the brightest. They are content with how they were made, to the point where people make a hobby of lying their backs on the country ground just to look at them, connecting the beings to make shapes. Shapes that are irregular. Lopsided. A little long on one side, short on the other. Not cookie cutter. Yea, I’ll be the Stars.

What if Black cracks?

What if Black got spots?

What if Black got wrinkles?

What if Black got pimples?

What if Black thins?

What if Black ain’t got no curves?

What if Black don’t have edges?

What if Black got unruly hair?

And what if Black don’t do anything about it?

I looked in the mirror and examined myself. I ran my fingers through the Sun, caressed the Moon above my neck, and outlined the Stars on my person.

Black isn’t a beauty standard. Black is a galaxy.