Be Kind To Your Heart

Some colds feel like a flu others like a fluke,
but your body doesn’t know the difference

Written by: Flose Boursiquot

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I am “Giant Woman”

I caress women’s hearts
when their lips bleed
insecurities down to
their beautiful feet.

I write post-it messages
to myself and post them
up against the mirror
to caress my own heart.

I can only see the beauty
in me when it speaks
through dirty handwriting
next to puffy eyelids.

The woman who breathes
life reminds me that we
are queens, more than the
mid-twenties rolls & late night shame.

The young woman who models
beauty for a penny too fat
to slide into my pocket
gifts me a book; she understands.

The man on the radio
is close to my heart but
far from anything i’ll ever know…
he tells me of Alice, she’s always there.

Understanding works that way. 

Written by: Flose Boursiquot

Inspirations:
-Lily Myers, Shrinking Women
-Nahko, Alice (My Name Is Bear)

Plastic when you’re brown

sometimes, we can’t put our finger on a multiple choice item on the checklist, because the conveyer belt is all we know.

sit closer to the cloud of dust,
it’s you.

when the rain comes it washes,
it’s you.

the drain swallows what use to be,
it’s you.

always, our familiar is foreign to the one who knows the pages of the book well, because they wrote it while you slept.

they call it an item —
make exact change,
slide the plastic
when you feel brown.

blue is too bright,
brown is the color
of the dust caught
in your throat when
all you want to say is
free me, free me.

from this very thing
that is you there’s an
evil you cannot hear,
but it found home in you.

the old gray woman,
she lives in the belly
of the young girl who
cried mercy when her
baby doll broke into
pieces of cutting glass.

Written by: Flose Boursiquot

Published

Every once in awhile it scares me that I have a book out there.

It’s poetry. My poetry. Experiences I’ve fallen over in heartbeats of therapy sessions. Scars I’ve picked at, cried over, and stapled back over my skin. They never quite mold to the softness anymore, because I’ve picked at them so much. Now they hang from the real thing; like plastered makeup on Halloween night.

Close Your Eyes, Now Breathe, exists. 

My students, who I pant over when they misuse the English Language, can purchase a copy of my own work. They can pick her up, strip her apart, and assign their own grading system.

Will I meet all of their expectations? What about that possessive noun I missed here or that one edit I overlooked there?

Then the voice comes back. It’s the one that knocked my chest awake the night I convinced myself I could never be a writer. It screams –god, dammit, Flose. You are a writer.

You are a writer. You are a writer. You are a writer. 

The voice moves me back in time. It takes me step-by-step, reminds me that I’ve written thousands of poems over the years, and that I have finished a second manuscript. People want me to speak at their events, and when I do, they want me to return and recommend me to their friends and colleagues.

You — no, I will be a New York Times Bestseller. I will inspire others to turn their experiences into art. 

This is what I am meant to do. I’ll get there, not simply because I want it, but because I work at it more than I have ever worked at anything in my life. And most importantly, because The Universe whispered “Flose, name her Flose,” and my parents heard her loud and clear.

Flose flows. Her words, though dark at times, are meaningful.