diff i cult By Kim Morales

diff i cult

I know your irrational refusal
to love. or humor me

I know the noise,
the snapping,
when I crack open bones
of chicken, after, I slip
the greasy meat
into my mouth
I suck on the bones
and right then I know
I know this
distressed and stretched
brown belly of mine,
never full
never never full
I want too much
more than what the world
can give me.

I know
how lonely the walks
in the dying industrial
parts of this town are
and the green-blackness
of the Gowanus Canal
looks like a warm bath
sometimes, I know to draw
a map of red lines
across my forearms
that will lead to
an explanation of
I know
how sometimes I wish
I had choked

on that Thanksgiving night

I know
I cry myself to sleep
because the Earth rotates
to avoid me
my rose mouth is filled
with chicken and swears
when my rose mouth
envelopes you — whoever —
you like it
I’ve wronged and I tend to
open wounds that I call friends
I feel like
holding the world
up to my breast, because
my right tit is lactating

I play-act as a thick woman
with millions of
owned words
and the fat life
to back them up

I know
I want
to crack myself open
like the chicken bones
I suck on
and I want you
to be my mouth
you tell me
you’d rather not
without explanation
written out on a scrap paper
on which I might have
scratched out any
affections for you

I know
I remember
the difficult women before me
their hair was longer and
spiced with the scent of sweat
they had more knowledge
in their hips than me
I’ll never be difficult
like the way they were difficult
they fought fire
instead of trying to be it
they pulled life out of
themselves and the ground
crookedly, they bled
for everyone they loved
I bleed so my life
might be worth something
I am a child still
and I need them to
lay next to me
while I cry myself to sleep —
I remember their sleep
as the soundtrack to my childhood
and I lay now
a weeping insomniac
to express the reds
of being a difficult woman
in ways they couldn’t
they were busy dreaming
of a world where they could
dilate enough to give birth
to rainbows

I know
my sisters
turn their heaving backs
on me, to chew on bones
men leave them sometimes
while I demand full trays
of delicious and fatty meat
when I snap bones
and the crunch scares them
I smile at them
red and chicken grease
smeared on my face
relishing their fear
when they whisper about me
as I gorge myself
on salt soaked food

I know
I am
and there is no end to this

By Kim Morales


I am from Brooklyn, NY. I am of Guatemalan and Puerto-Rican descent. I am currently attending LaGuardia Community College.

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