Her 14-year-old skin hung tight around my fetal curves, holding all of my innocence in the loss of hers. Not all the crayons in this box are pretty. That newly pubescent body holding me so tight I stretch marked it with the brand of my dwelling. She really loved me like she could never love anybody else; the fruit of the dogged pursuit of a statutory rapist. Let me tell you again, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.

I was ripped from that birth canal with a force I never deserved. I could have lived forever in that young, na├»ve, child’s frame that allowed a predator to become the only father that I would ever get to have. See, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.

She beat and used me. He spread my legs and abused me. She was all I ever wanted I a friend, because we grew up together; but she thought she knew it all, and he was in and out of prison all of the days of my life. I told you, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.

I only really ever talked to her when she was high. Whoa. Did I say, not all the crayons in this box are pretty? Well, she died of AIDS and he got life, and I lost the only parents I’ll ever have to love with a love that is so unconditional it stings; because I learned early on that you have to love the ugly too…because, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.


My Poetry

Don’t think you’re just
Site there
Breathing the
Stale stillness
In the air,
As I stand here and
Unstitch my seems…

You better inhale
With caution
These words I speak,
Because that nasty smell I
Reek of-
Is honesty.

I’m ripping off Band-Aids
Using my words to
Paint pictures of my
Retelling stories of
Battles I’ve been through,
The many deaths I’ve survived,
Times I’ve been revived.

You know,
My wounds still cry blood-
Heavy and
Covering you in the
Resounding crimson
Of my

I spread myself like
A tan-
But you’ll feel me like
A sunburn-
As I expose myself through
This hole in my ozone,
Te breath in this microphone-
My heart,
Plugged into my mouth,
Amplified by my

This is-