Mañana la luna sangra
y por qué la luna sangra? Sangra porque representa a la mujer, el dolor y el placer de existir en este mundo. Sangra porque tiene miles de lágrimas que de su interior no ha podido sacar. Sangra porque me ve escribiendo esta noche a solas y piensa que son largas las horas. Sangra porque voy por el tercer cigarrillo consecutivo y no me puede detener. Porque ve todo con ojos distintos. Sangra porque piensa como mujer. |
Tomorrow the moon bleeds
and why does the moon bleed? She bleeds because she represents women, pain and pleasure to exist in this world. She bleeds because it has thousands of tears that from its interior it hasn't been able to remove. She bleeds because it sees me writing tonight alone and thinks that the hours are long. She bleed because I'm going for the third cigarette and she can not stop me. Because she sees everything with different eyes. She bleeds because She thinks like a woman. |
El hombre es débil por naturaleza.
No hablemos de rudezas, ni de hombros anchos o gran musculatura. Hablemos de lo que realmente vale y de lo que realmente importa. El hombre es débil por naturaleza. Porque sabe que la mujer lo complementa y por eso su necesidad de tratar de poseerla y querer hacerla suya a la fuerza. El hombre es débil por naturaleza. Aunque en muchas ocaciones en las noches frías se acuruca en su cama y llora; llora a solas, porque se cree muy hombre. |
Man is weak by nature.
Let's not talk about rudeness, or broad shoulders or great musculature. Let's talk about what really counts and what really matters. Man is weak by nature. Because he knows that a woman compliments him and for this, his need to possess her and make her his by force. Man is weak by nature. Although on many occasions on cold nights he curls up in his bed and cries; he cries alone because he thinks he is such a man. |
I'm Not Afraid Anymore
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Sometimes
I save her IG selfies to my camera roll. Sometimes I delete them cuz I don’t have time to stare and study her all day the way I do. Learn the light in her eyes The twitch in her smile I don’t have time to imagine the softest skin my hands could ever caress under a full moon of possibilities. But I wish I did. Sometimes I fantasize about resting my heart on her jawline, awaiting the moment her voice may tremble at the mere pronunciation of my name. Sometimes Her name is all I know how to pronounce. Sometimes I want to show her how I say her name. How I sing it in the shower like she were a melodic reminder that love can pour down and cleanse the body. How I hum it in the kitchen while chopping fresh onions and cilantro. But I don’t want to wake her. She is still sleeping from a lunar night of possibilities. And I, sometimes, forget that I no longer have to fantasize about what we’ve made real. |
Submitted June 2018
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My Body, My Temple
Content Warning: sexual language, metaphorical reference to assault
Part I
I'm tired of hearing people tell women to view our bodies "like a temple"... As if temples should be vacant. Without visitor or admirer. As if temples are no place to make offerings to the divine. Yes, my body is a temple. And I, its goddess. You may adore me. You may love me. You may make yourself offering to my every demand. Sex Intimacy Orgasms -- All honor me. Do not speak of, or for, this temple as if to know its needs. For those I allow in will fall quickly to their knees and please me. Sometimes I want to be filled up, Just to be poured out. Sometimes I want my mouth to be holy grail to your wine. Sometimes I want my moan to slow down time. So make offering of your tongue, fingers and loins. They are mine until I return them. Though you may not want them back. |
Part II
Temples can be destroyed. Can be broken into. Its parts made a mess. Its attendants, deceitful. I am divine. I am not immune to pain. I am a goddess. I do not take treachery lightly. Dishonor me and you will know nothing but flame. Part III If you are going to teach women that our bodies are temples, I suggest you stop raising your sons to be raiders. Touching and taking as they please -- faithless hands Eyes that see only treasure and conquest -- my body, their land. |
“Writing is important to me because it allows me to sit down with my scars and have a conversation with them. It is how I heal. It is how I turn my fire into water.” |
Sh’Rae Marshall was raised by his grandmother and mother in Atlantic City, NJ. He is currently a medical student at Jefferson University in Philadelphia, PA. Since high school, Sh’Rae has found creative writing to be much more than an outlet. He quickly developed a passion for literature that continues to grow. He maintains this passion throughout medical school and enjoys exploring the intersections of trauma in medicine and creative writing. He pulls from experiences as a queer cis-man of color with cultural ties to Black-American and Latino-American. He writes about themes that he has lived and witnessed. He also enjoys challenging himself to learn/read/write about the untold stories of others who may or may not be part of any of his communities.
After medical school, Sh’Rae intends to train in a surgical specialty while also attending lectures and workshops that will allow him to further develop his writing skills. |
I am not sure
if this is love, but I am falling for a boy who calls me art. With hands that teach me how it feels to crave death, he sculpts me. As if these bones can be molded like clay instead of shattered like glass. As if this skin can learn how to tell stories of an artist and his brush instead of a poet and her trauma. |
I am not sure
if I forgive him, but at least he is sorry. He tells me this after he paints a moon around my eye. But, he comes home with chocolates. And allows me to sink into him. Like. He can absorb my pain. Like. The arms that make me feel safe aren't attached to the hands that make me feel hollow. |
I am not sure
if he is emotional, but I am sleeping with a boy that introduces me to his demons. And I don't know which one I'll be blessing tonight. But, I will invite him to pray in my shrine. To be baptized in my ocean. To taste the flesh of his savior. I am not sure if he will change, but at least he is trying |
His yells
begin to harmonize with the sound my body makes when it is thrown to the floor. I believe this is performance art. But, I never agreed to have our home be a museum. I am not sure if he will realize, but I have fallen again. I want to rise on my own. I want to be the Jesus my mother raised me to be. |
But instead,
I live on the floor. Broken into so many damn pieces, waiting for you to rebuild me with the lacquer and gold and silver that you promised. I may not be in love, but at least I am art. |
Neisha Nicki is a 23 year old Black, non-binary woman who resides in Missouri. They identify as a polyamorous, sapphic bisexual and uses both she/her and they/them pronouns—the latter being her preferred pronouns. They enjoy music, cooking, and writing poetry.
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