Melinda J Nevarez writes poetry and flash fiction mainly to escape, if only for a moment, the chaos in her head. A former drug addict, she is now an addicted to chronicling the plight of the downtrodden and advocating compassionate mental health services.
Duerme con la sangre
it's a quiet kind of danger,
Colder in than out
wore sadness like an old coat
lint in her pockets (and secrets
they'd put you away for)--
take your medication, darling
say thank you
when they dole out your kindnesses
like government cheese...
traded up for
cheap whiskey fingers blistered
I'll fuck you for answers,
said, almost begging.
Narcissus never procreated.
but she will
catch you behind the curtain and
to bleed you out.
Romance the Maudlin
left of the tree,
destruction so obvious it is
sits next to him like a moan
against the other side the ground littered with foil--
she is broken, metal.
barefoot, towards him,
Her guilt is palpable Another unoriginal casualty
nothing to hand him, no part of her he hasn't written.
when she licks bleeds smiles.
one time dull eyes
cuts the rope, her body curling into itself like old wallpaper.
Eyes cloudy, she turned to ash.
my Mexican grandma had a catholic shrine
With a very large St. Christopher
his hands bound with rosaries
the flickering saints eye level to me
I wanted to shrink into the smell of melting wax
the statue was black;
this was my god.
Though he wasn't allowed in my parents' gauche temple
(the shrouded space between secrets)--
our black neighbor was kind to me...
my god was
down the street
watering His lawn.
when I breached the subject, I'm not sure
the visceral reaction,
how my Stomach Dropped a
Cold Prickle over my arms
when I knew I
fucked up Religiously.
and god was an old bearded white man
with Exceptionally Large Hands
it left me unsettled
(old white men
behind oak pulpits they spoke like
and a sunday spent on green pews learning
to the white man.