try to talk about it

This line was forced.
This line, I took through the eyes.
This line, the collected dark patches of 2015, yearns to be recalled.
This line is the relationship that led the tip of my pinky toe over the edge of a ledge.
This line lullabied and leashed my thumb, yanked me back.
This line sobbed,
“I’m sorry I almost lost you.
I’m sorry I almost lost you.
I’m sorry I almost lost you.”
This line almost lost me.

This line is made of tiny repeated mistakes, stuck close together.
This line is dressed in it’s Sunday best shame.
This line is a lying hypocrite and gets saved, anyhow.
This line has no real reason to do any better.

This line tried to swallow itself into non-existence.
This line almost liberated the entirety of its blood for the sake of another’s ascension.
This line is not a martyr.

This line kissed a woman and birthed itself.
This line is phallic and sapphic.
This line wants to forget.
This line wants to forget.
This line only knows how to be forgotten.

This line has sex.
This line can’t have sex.
This line can’t have sex.
This line can’t have sex.
This line can’t have sex.
This line wants to know what this line will be.

Once fast, now with fear of fornication,
this line only knows how to be forgotten.
This line was forced.


even when i didn’t ask, they did it for me

What do we do after we march?”

rub rubble from their eyes, (that’s
actually skin, bombed-blasted empty to seek
salvation beneath 6-year old lids.

actually, a thinly cracked, reddened goodbye
from a mother’s splintered throat,

actually the blackening power of a knuckle
to temple, in temple, tempted to sin by bared skin

actually, hope, chipped off by the slammed
cover of Pandora’s box)

how did humans access
what she never dared let escape?

Hope was an undocumented entity
caught in a box pumped with anti-psychotics,
satiated to stillness by the rhythm of their own tears

hope was not what crawled
out from the base of my spine,
my feet scraped across the veiled-
with-forgetfulness karmic time-warp
begotten by the multifaceted figure
of genocide. lungs raw, i know i’ve
been here before, before i died a man,
arrow to the left lung, before i died a woman,
brown Mary ravaged to rubble to lend passage to
lighter-skinned generations and migrants,
before i died as a boy

who got English crammed into his teeth
until his gums bled and he was called

I am
“woke”, eyes bloodshot and
begs to the sky for mercy (where
are the children?) in the same
tissue-shattering language, i call
for freedom with sounds pregnant
with century long justifications
for murder, gums fully bled.

Still, the crowd behind me echoes.
Still, there are chants and repeats.
Still, they see me not dis-eased.

-Stevie Ambroise



blue butterflies land on my chest

there had been a hiatus, a break/
newly made log rot where insects
searched for and found lodging. some-
times what begets a crack in the skin/
(or the heart)/ begets refuge for another being.

stop time,
blood flow and CO2

blue butterflies land on my chest

you can do what needs to be accomplished
and still sustain scarring: this is the spiritual war,
one that breathes amongst other warriors,
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is a soft wind that
sways branches,
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is sand grabbed by
a timid wave’s crest, passively submerged,
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is dust motes caught
unaware in a column of light, exposed
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is sun-wheeled burns/
on sensitive shoulders
everything is necessary.

blue butterflies land on my chest,
symbiosis and sufferance

-Stevie Ambroise

should i soften my love?

i wonder what tonight means for us,
a race of thunder claps and sharp light
gashes through clouds after wounds
are spoken open –your i’m sorries causes
earthquakes and gas leaks, typhoons
and oxygen bubbles, both the death
of unawares and a cunning lonely fish’s
saving grace

goddess, is this an upset
directed towards me, or does
my narcissism cause me to
always be beneath scars
as scabs are peeled off to let
blood flow, scarlet drops
pitter-pattering my forehead,
why must i always be below
the blood-letting-

from mistress to midwife,
from deliver of orgasms to organic
apologies, to the truth
letting breaths caught in the
crisp air of authenticity, i am not
sorry you are upset, i can’t
keep apologizing for being sunlight
that pushes painful blooms,
i bloom too, i wake early
to my own shine, tears leaking
from brightness, scars burst
to newness, i do it to myself,
i won’t hesitate to meet you
with the same love.

-Stevie Ambroise

All Because I Thought You Looked Like Wisdom

You’re the latest love to turn me to a poem,
after time and trauma stoppered Understanding

too weak to lift rhythm
from the the waving hands of the word
“waist” (or was it waste), which
type of time tripped me up and caught me

like a baby, shrunken too small
by rebirth to comprehend prison
for the sake of precaution, as I watch words,
mobile, fall from the ceiling before I sleep?

they never land on me
i never taste them

for when I dream I chase
because I am a grown man
who is an elderly woman
who feels like a teenager

and you are a pickup
(or a dump) trucking along

and my heart is a filling moon-sliver of a
fingernail, drawing blood from bumper,
destined to never rip, even
as the force and direction of your speed
and the gravelly inertia of your “no”,
leaves me to flap in the wind,
skinned raw swaddled in tears

all because I thought you looked like wisdom.



what do you take
for the calcification of desire,
what pushes out the aortic stone,
sometimes caught in the left chamber,
sometimes the throat?

i take a tincture dropper filled with the memory of
my latest favorite album,
the taste of strawberry ice cream,
the warmth of a cup tea in the palm,
and how, sometimes when you laugh, your eyebrows go up,
even though i’m the one left surprised
by how quickly it all takes my breath away.


i dont (episode 4: a breakout series)

i don’t
remember the last time
i remembered myself,
caught the lobe of my ear
dangling off a ray of the star,
Sirius, loud and self-embracing

me, i’m tired of the pick apart
put together caused by self-explosion and the
subsequent scavenge of the earth
for the most minute monuments of me
(like last night, i was so desperate
for the left side of my pinky toe,
and I could still stand
is it greed if i have this
need while i know
i still need?

shouldn’t this desperate
desire be enough
for me?

– Stevie