poems, prose and
other pretty words
© 2010-2014
Chel Mercado


To you, my darling,
what am I

-your pretty red insecticide)?

If I become a ladybug,
shall I be your savior, love?
or         your      

I'm thinking and thinking and overthinking-
an answer for
the aphid plague on your garden?-

Well, maybe's it's okay.
  and maybe you'll let me loose
because "it's okay, we'reit's okay,"
though I know you know that I know
damn well it won't be that way,
because I
will   taint
the nectar you drink
with my futile attempts
to defend the tiny red-
-lump that is my heart.


                   This poem, oh, this metaphor,
                   it's really little fucking more
    than a caricature of art

       ( like us to happiness, no? )

and I can't do it
       I can't do it.
I can only dream of being a ladybug,
     a lucky little insect who could never possibly comprehend
     the unending agony of ending day after day after day loo-
     king around her empty little garden to see everything you
     have left behind.
I can only dream.

I can only dream (of you).