Frustration of my inner soul rises as the name that belonged to

many grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and Paul Newman’s famous wife

gets different sounds.

The autumn breeze kept hitting me

giving external comfort.

I can hear the songs they were singing

as they shifted the dead leaves from place to place.

Waiting

Waiting

the tick goes tock,

the time goes on.

For you, the face of your future faithful spouse,

you saw a hoe to take to the courthouse,

After four long years of destroying myself,

you threatened to hide our painting on the shelf.

I prefer sweet soy milk, having that sweet vanilla aftertaste running through my tongue like a river after hard rain but who in the hell listens to a twenty-five-year-old autistic, queer barista who is in her final semester of college?

I realized the Prince Charming

I fell in love with

was a master of disguise.

Under the mask,

you were the monster I feared.

No way, no way! It must be a man!

The way God made us to be, right. Right?

If I do things right, I will be okay.

I am fed this truth by my pastors.

Her apartment serves as her castle,

with the locks on her doors as her guards.

The feline body of eight pounds serves as her lady-in-waiting,

who serves as her alone body of the company.