She doesn’t want us here.
She parts the leaves and walks on through,
I wish I could walk in the warm breeze too.
She doesn’t want us here.
She faces the sun to burn sight…
Repeating: She’s,”…glad to live in the light”.
She doesn’t want us here.
She pretends that ghosts are not real,
‘Cause she doesn’t want to see, hear, or feel…
Herself…
She doesn’t want her here.
K. Aldaya, 8/24/19
Picture: By: Nine Kopfer on Unsplash; https://unsplash.com/photos/tJC6I9S3nBw
We work in the shadows with an air of civility,
Dropping the pants of a world undisclosed;
Where eyes vilify the skirted and clothed,
For breeding the sins of the overexposed.
We move softly in the shadows eclipsed by “the unsaid”.
With the weight of morality on our backs.
We amend with checks and our very souls,
As we drift namelessly, and fall through the cracks.
We’re the shame and mortification of being alive.
Our breasts, and sex, are man’s nature denied.
Shunned from the sun and logical discourse;
The raw…the real…the gospel lost inside…
Mirrors heedless of reflection.
K. Aldaya, 4/13/18
My Soul is a Lock Without a Key 