By Iyanna Armwood
- My mother said cold hands mean a warm heart,
so when my hands are cold I hold them to my chest
searching for a feeling like
a bath at 3am on a winter night.
Sometimes I want to feel for your hands
or search past the flesh of your chest
for your heart.
Will I find warmth
or be left with frostbite?
- I think about worthiness a lot.
My quality to others.
My significance to myself.
Does it even exist for me?
- I remember when you told me my boobs look great
in the frilly shirt I felt silly in.
It took everything in me not to sound like a fool and say,
“Thanks. Your boobs always look great!”
- I didn’t want you to think that I’m always
staring at the lumps of fat on your chest.
If anything I stare at your long legs
and your soft but serious facial expressions that
remind me you’re a badass with a good heart.
- If people were colors based on their personality,
what color would I be?
I would most likely be colorless and bland
for I have nothing to make me…me.
You remind me of autumn,
you would be reddish-brown
for your ever-changing progression.
- At one point, I informed the bees that their services
were no longer needed.
You are sweeter than any honey
they could ever hope to produce.
The only reason they should ever be allowed
to continue such a practice
is to enhance the taste of your tea.
- At night, I run from streetlight to streetlight to stay out of the dark.
I don’t wish to know what lies there.
I’d much rather live in your radiance.