Singularity

 My poetry are a collection of my thoughts. 

My innermost ideas, secrets, concepts, and beliefs. 

 

A lot of the time however, 

My poetry is very singular. 

I write about the ghosts of my past who haunt my waking days. 

There are a few figures in my writing who persist. 

But one shadow I always try to ignore. 

 

It is the lumbering wraith who clings to my back, 

Breathes down my neck, 

Drapes itself over my psyche. 

 

It’s a three-letter work beginning with an “S”. 

 

In my household it was always taboo,

A subject you never spoke of, 

Never did.

My sibling and I have been led to believe

We were of virginal birth. 

We just came to be one day. 

 

It wasn’t until I was older I learned, 

It was supposed to be more than desires and flesh. 

It was supposed to symbolize the feelings you had for another person, 

It was meant to show the bond between two people. 

 

“You don’t have sex unless you mean it.” 

Became a new term to me. 

It was problematic, riddled in old world beliefs. 

But I took it heart. 

Which made hearing about it being used as a weapon…

Difficult.

 

My mother ranted and yelled about the feeling of being dismissed. 

To put all you have on the table, 

Only to be rejected. 

It became something I sorely feared. 

 

It created a weird unhealthy apprehension of sex. 

I didn’t want it,

Because I didn’t want to be rejected 

By someone I loved enough to trust. 

 

This was rooted in other personal issues, 

But it stood out the most. 

There was this deep-rooted fear that I too 

Would put all I have on the table,

Looking for some passion 

Some love 

Something.

And be rejected.

 

The “sting of rejection” is a term I sorely hate. 

I always used to believe 

If you thought it stung

You were being dramatic. 

 

But it does sting. 

Being rejected for anything burns. 

It creates this feeling of worthlessness. 

 

In the world of love

It hurts way more. 

Worthlessness is a common sensation. 

There’s always too much apprehension. 

Fear. 

There’s always fear. 

 

The fear you have made them angry, 

Scorned them,

Hurt them,

Rejected them. 

 

There is the fear they are falling out of love with you. 

That lingers a little too much. 

 

Feeling less than comes around a lot. 

You love someone so much 

A belief that they are far more deserving 

Of what you can provide

Creates this imposter syndrome, 

A burning feeling that you are scum.

Trash. 

 

Undeserving.

Worthless.

 

Everyone is quick to say if you feel this way

It’s a bad relationship. 

But who amongst us can say 

That true love

Has never made you feel these sensations? 

 

Maybe I have just been broken 

Unrepairable.

Always seeing the good with a grain of salt, 

Waiting for something to go bad and hurt me again.

 

I’m just jaded I suppose. 

 

I felt rejection, 

And I find myself spiraling. 

Melting down a drain, 

Feeling unloved,

Unwanted, 

Undesired.

 

Even in my sleep I cant escape 

This choking

Stifling feeling.

 

The sting of rejection. 

Return to Form

Poetry is an ever evolving medium. 

In school we are taught haiku’s, limericks, sonnets, ode’s, elegies…

So much time is spent in the realm of rules, 

but we never encourage freeform. 

 

There are no rules, 

no end stops

perfect stanzas.

 

In freeform a stanza 

 

Could 

 

Be 

 

One 

 

Word 

 

If we wanted. 

There is no way to define something without definition or rules. 

You cannot grade what is meant to be freeform and fluid. 

We are taught to not include poetry in portfolio’s. 

Because how can you measure the worth of something 

that has no structure? 

 

I guess this is why I vent my frustrations, 

share my experiences 

in this form. 

 

It is the purest form of thought: 

Unlimited. Undefined. 

It can be as in depth or as vague 

as I choose. 

And nobody can tell me no. 

 

My poetry has a clean evolution. 

I use it to share my thoughts, 

but try to make my difficult

messy emotions

Into something prettier. 

Easier to swallow. 

 

Harder to ignore. 

 

Nobody reads these thoughts. 

but I’ll post them anyway. 

Labels

 A little sticker you put on your emotions. 

We label things, 

because we just don't know what to do with them. 

We label our gender, 

sexuality

and how many people can receive our love. 

Male, female, trans, non-conforming, other, or none. 

Gay, straight, ace, pan, bi 

Monogamous or Polyamorous. 

There's a label that exists because, 

in our tumultuous world we need something to be certain

other than our uncertainty. 

In love, we want things to be easy, 

defined, 

so that our feelings don't have room to become uncertain

or hurt. 

Certainty prevents a certain scarring. 

Sure, certainty can mean a finite thing. 

The end of a relationship, 

as well as the start of one. 

Sometimes we aren't ready to hear what that certainty is, 

but we still ask for the label. 

We need labels, 

but what happens when one, or both, aren't ready to give those labels. 

We just wait and see, 

hoping one makes the move 

or that one doesn't. 

I want something finite with you. 

The effortless way I have come to love, 

is something I want to feel everyday. 

it's boring without you. 

1:45 am

 I was aware of the time.

I'm not aware of it anymore. 

I want to write about you, 

to talk about the person you are. 

I'm sure everyone has heard me speak, 

as if you are still here. 

Because you are. 

You promised you wouldn't leave me. 

But now there's a hole in my heart, 

my little family is incomplete. 

1:45 am I got the call. 

The call that my precious brother, 

my best friend in the whole world, 

was gone. 

There was crying, 

shaking, 

begging, 

pleading. 

Please god, not him. 

It felt like a bad dream. 

But then came more calls, 

texts, 

Facebook notifications. 

It took the world two days to learn 

what I had to in seconds. 

I don't want to say goodbye, 

so I won't. 

I don't want to wait until resurrection 

or whatever religious sayings can help me get through the pain 

because it won't. 

I don't want to say goodbye to my brother, 

but I have to. 

I shouldn't have to say goodbye, 

but I have to. 

I love him beyond words can describe, 

and the tears just won't stop flowing. 

He is my precious big brother, 

my best friend. 

And now I have to say goodbye... 

and I just can't. 

William Christopher Rodriguez

Dec. 16th, 1988- Jan. 23rd, 2021 

Painted Hand

 It is quite possibly the longest 

and simultaneously the shortest relationship 

I can ever have. 

I first considered you to be a harder commitment, 

something that required years of and years of effort and thought

to even start feeling content. 

But now, 

two months in

I can't see my life without you. 

My left hand is finally painted, 

decorated the way I dreamed 

and I'm not feeling even a shred of remorse. 

Sometimes I look at my hand, 

and I can no longer picture a point in time

where there were no stars present 

on my night sky. 

I want a sibling, 

but there's some trepidation 

maybe I won't be as satisfied as I am now. 

I should quit while I'm ahead 

but then I think about 

how I feel trapped in my own body,

how these little modifications help me feel a little less 

trapped. 

and I'm okay with going under the needle 

again. 

City of Ghosts

Somedays I'm fine.
Somedays.

Somedays I walk slower.
Somedays.

Somedays I see the ghosts on the street,
somedays I walk past the shadows without care.
And somedays,
I can't even think.

The ghosts of the past,
Shadows of my inadequacies,
reminding me of my failures.
The voices that called me perfect,
but I couldn't see the signs.
It was my job to keep you together,
but I failed.

"Just cross the street,
keep your eyes on the crosswalk sign."

But I turned.
I met your gaze.

You turned away from your walking shame.

Yes, I saw you, 
but I also caught a glimpse of all the ghosts you carry.
One face reminds me of them all.

All my ghosts, no longer demons.
Demons come out at night,
but ghosts can exist in the day.

A simple haunting I wish to be rid of.
Somedays I can't even hear the creaking footsteps
in the attic of my mind.
I'm ignoring the whispers,
walking past the moving shadows.

But somedays, I stop dead in my tracks.
I feel the icy breath,
I hear the giggles,
I feel the pokes and prods of a ghostly presence.

I see your shadows.
Savannah is a haunted city after all.

Bathroom tiles

There's always going to be a piece of myself missing.

She's always gonna be gone.
Always missing.

It's funny, I'm dressed like a ghost
but I'm haunted by a real one.

the ghost of myself,
the ghost of my past,
the ghost of my trauma.

But my abuser is all too real.

She spent her time hiding in the bathroom,
crying and shaking.
Everything is too much,
its overwhelming.

and he's picking the lock,
trying to get in.

Taking the space away.

When I blink I see it all again.
Clattering to the floor,
crying,
screaming,
shaking.

There's a piece of me still lost,
still gone
never coming back.

I hid on the top roof of a parking garage,
because the bathroom was no longer safe.

Closest to the sky,
farthest from the ground.
Ready to leave it all behind.

a part of me wishes I did.

It's torture,
walking down the street
while a piece of me is still crying in the bathroom.

I lost that piece of me,
and she's not coming back.

I can't bring back that ghost.