jove: a brief anthology
Act Accordingly
-jove, 26 september 2022
My most common saying is to ignore my tears—
I’m trying to become your muse, as I’ve done with myself,
and in my most naked self,
I have no strength to damn their fall.
I’ve never heard my name to the extent I hear it now.
Spoken with decision, with remembrance,
with my eyes in mind.
I feel myself scrambling up wall here,
like pink, like berry,
like fly stuck in spot when you speak to me.
Stay here and impress me.
Ask me to call upon myself and I will—
I’m being ignorant and I know it,
it’s why I bite my tongue as it stutters upon its grace.
You’d never know what was on my mind
because all my free time is spent thinking,
but if you’re watching my lips then I want you to listen.
Flirting with divinity by my side,
and floating with no end in sight,
and I don’t even like saying nigga sometimes,
hating its audacity and sex appeal, and the casual commodity of disrespect.
You stake your claim and feign surprise
when the serpent reminds you it’s a snake.
I’ll no longer respond when asked to explain myself,
nor will I attempt to entertain.
I aim to speak with specific diction,
grown now a child of glory and restraint
and, in my hands hold my tension.
So, I’ll do nothing about my titty bounce,
nor when they move to meet your gaze.
A Feminine creature
-jove, 13, july, 2023
I don’t want to become accustomed to the aesthetic of struggle
I came into this world already exhausted.
Born with my eyes closed, refusing everything but my origin.
You see me losing interest to talk to anyone—
watching those of you lacking focus.
Maybe I’m just meant to relax,
sleep and cry in my own rhythm.
When I’m alone, I sound like my father,
groaning at my reflection and restoring my ego.
I’m often embarrassed by my age.
Something about me must be unapproachable,
people refusing to take my word and perception.
I remember being my past self—
cynical and scared,
dreaming of my purse
and everything that might be within.
I’ve sprouted, from that, into some kind of feminine creature,
who’s comfort in sharing comes secondary.
If you had an open hand, I’d hold it.
I have no fear in death,
only that I’m letting you in too quickly.
There’s a chaos in my silence—
in the thoughts of those driving me home.
A niche kind of romance,
moments like itches needing to be scratched,
moments like the wind whipping me all around,
moments where I’m comfortable enough to die.
I can be okay,
when I choose it for myself.
but, I must find ease in giving up comfort.
Not that quality is lost in change—
just the dis- of moving between moments,
where I feel my past spent in pause.
I’ve grown to be exhausted and lonely,
crawling through time,
forced to find peace in transition.
With Intent
-jove, 22 december, 2022
I want to kill myself too.
Simply to leave.
Not my existence
just this reality—it makes me cry.
Some of you aren’t prepared.
The death you want isn’t real.
Your existence is on purpose.
You chose to be here,
by nothing but your own intention.
Jerk reactions to breathe,
to thrash around
to punch the walls
to assert my boundaries.
Speak only to my eyes.
Because I have a problem with authority.
A sovereign entity.
..love poem #1
-jove, march 02, 2023
tipping signs and open arms.
you can find me painted. draped. naked.
close habitation.
indescribable space.
harmonious company—a simple relief.
i’m used to saying and not doing.
but when he speaks,
he follows through.
…love poem #3
-jove, 07 july, 2023
Ask me how I am today,
so I can explain to you my reality.
I don’t know why it is today,
my scale’s been weighted and tipped this way,
favoring the opposite with anger and disruption.
Picking at all ten nails to ruin my function.
A childish bitch, emotions set free.
I wrap you up when it’s time to leave.
Highs to lows, catches to blows.
You don’t know why I am this way,
nor why you deserve my full existence.
My mirrored self chanting due-diligence.
I don’t want to hurry; be careful, indeed.
I take my time to speak sometimes
because I know what my words mean.