sunday morning sweetwater by Doriana Diaz

i am my freest self on sunday mornings

when i am full of sweetwater/lips wet

i see my soul from the front of a poem/and meet myself/at the end

i put my waist beads back on

on sunday mornings/my day is open to fiddle with my own skin/tinker with my brain chemicals/

learn how to levitate myself

i am where my bones can offer themselves the opportunity to float/defy/ascend/wash over the

flesh/there are no unlived lives/in my veins on sunday mornings/just soft tissue/digging out the

juice/my limbs position themselves into prayer

i dance naked in front of the mirror/chain smoke/indulge in my mess/bite into the fire/right

where the yellow dissolves into the heat

on Sunday mornings/i shout my secrets out loud to myself

like how i want a child/now/even though i have no money/and no father

how i have to grab ahold of the air around me sometimes

how i miss the inside of my grandmothers mouth

how i’ve always felt the most safe in a room with open windows

how i can’t go anywhere i cannot see the moon

how the old injection marks are still blood orange

how love looks like all the things i don’t love/but am learning to/and how sometimes it has even

turned me against myself

how i don’t always know how to keep the rage tender/and it feels like i am kneading into marble

how the land abandoned me/and left me a stranger

how the resentment builds/unfurling into knots of angst that i can never seem to shake

i am my freest self on sunday mornings

when i am full of sweetwater/lips wet

i see my soul from the front of a poem/and meet myself/at the end

​​sunday morning sweetwater

sunday morning sweetwater