Grayscale
There is something beautiful about gray.
It is in the storm clouds and tin roofs,
Battleships and full moons.
It is the space where heathered words
Meet on the battlefield of mistakes,
Regrets, and second chances.
It leaves its mark on our temples
And every black thing that has
Ever been left too long in the sun.
Ladies Night
Kanye brags about touching the sky
While I sink lower in a scoop back chair
Feeling too vanilla in a cold room filled
With women colored in thirty-one flavors
Today’s prompt is to write a poem that begins with the title “The Trouble is ________.”
The Trouble is Gravity
There is too much of it.
It seeps down from the sky
into my lungs, tethering
Dreams and imagination
To the earth like anchors
Tied to drowning bodies.
Today’s prompt is to write a poem about an animal. Bugs are animals, right?
Today’s prompt is to write about sports. Since this is Texas, I knew I wanted to write about high school football games. 
Friday Night Lights
It is the magic hour.
Letter jacket cats come out to play
With mousy girls huddled
In giggling blankets.
They wish for stolen kisses
Under a cave of metal bleachers
That echo the roaring beat
Of pounding hearts and feet.
——
Lanes
we are faceless pins
waiting in formation
split
for a back alley honey
to knock us off our feet
strike
Today’s prompt was to write a love or anti-love poem.
The Old Battle Axe (Love)
I spent my early years
Inside a glass case
On display as much
A warning as a promise
Until you broke through
And reached your hand
Into the shatterings
To grasp my body blade
We ran together
Into the fire
———
Point of View (Anti-Love)
Second hand hearts beat louder than the unused
Broken in skin more supple than the untouched
But you only saw the silver scars from older cuts
The patchwork of mismatched prints from other hands
Today’s prompt is to write a poem about the morning. Those who know me know my aversion to fairy tale princesses, much in the vein of Anne Sexton’s “Cinderella.” This is a bit of what’s in my head, in a stream of consciousness sort of way.
Today’s prompt is to write a poem about judging.
Born This Way
Your compass mouth
Spins needle words
Toward my stationary self
I am target North
You assume the orientation
Of my eyes and every other part
Are written on the surface
Of my map body
You only see tectonics
Shifting at the mercy
(or is it power?)
Of the basal part of me
It is the heat
Beneath the skin
But you know nothing
Of the inside
Impossible Bottle
You pull my strings with tweezer hands
Bending flattened pieces up on hinges
To make me dimensional like a vessel
Launched inside a glass shell
That holds the echo of the sea
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