Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships

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This is an excerpt from a silly little book I wrote called Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships. You can find it on Amazon. But save your money, a lot of it can be found here on this site. I suck at self promotion. It’s okay, because I’m so good everything else. I’m kidding.

Men, what you need to know about women:

1. We women like to be taken, but not in a way that requires our fathers to bring out their particular set of skills. You know, the ones they have acquired over their long career. No, we want be taken up against the wall, on the dinning room table, the bathroom counter, on your desk, etc. We love to feel wanted and desirable. Dominate us in the sexiest way possible.

2.Tears are not a sign of weakness. It’s OK to be sensitive (unless you’re crying because you have nothing to wear, or you missed a “Real Housewives” episode)

3 There are two places tighty whities belong, on babies, or in the trash.

4. The vacuum cleaner and mop will not bite you. Go ahead, try them on for size. I dare you.

5 Sometimes all we need to hear is “No, honey, let me do it.”

6.Cologne is sexy, but no need to bathe in it.

7. A kiss on the hand at the right time can be quite lovely, at the wrong time, equally as creepy.

8. By all means, be the man in the relationship when it comes to killing bugs, or opening jars. We don’t mind.

9. However, never tell us what to do. EVER!

10. We want to be your muses but not in a sleazy photographer kind of way. We long to bring out your inner Shakespeare, not Larry Flynt.

11. Withhold nothing. We need to know where all the carbon goes, and why prime numbers remain a mystery. I’m looking at you, Riemann hypothesis. Why is it all so weird? Oh, and everyone you have ever dated, and what you had for lunch, and how your day was, and what your brother said on the phone. Etc
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12. Your mother was right, manners matter. Prove to us chivalry is not dead.

13. Please don’t tell us to calm down. You calm down!

14. I mentioned this last time but felt the need to reiterate, no, we do not want to see a picture of the little engine that could. Keep it wrapped up, buddy, until sexy time (which reminds me, never call sex, sexy time.)

15. Just because your friends might find us appealing doesn’t mean we want to to be with them. (unless your friends are Timothy Olyphant or Jon Stewart)

16. Please talk about your feelings. We want to know what’s going on in those heads of yours. However, we don’t have to have a come to Jesus meeting or an Oprah moment.

17. Douchebaggery is never a winning look. Wear compassion and humanity instead.

18.There’s nothing hotter than a man with tools, unless it’s a man with a book.

19. We like wearing your old college sweatshirt or sleeping in your t-shirt. Prepare to share. It makes us feel close to you.

20. All we need is affection, attention, love, chocolate — and a guy with a big…………………………………………………………….

brain.

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Stratospheric Eyes

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For David and Jen and Tony and Jersey girl 

Tonight I feel more alone than the moon
overthrown by the clouds.
I take solace in the rain, the sway of the trees
being shaken out like a well loved blanket by the wind.
I know you are out there under the horizon. We’re on the same Earth.
The moon plays peekaboo with you too.

I understand how time zones float like helium balloons across the globe.
But the sky and this poem know how much I want you here.
I want to look at you
and mark how time changes you,
as it changes us.
I want to love you up close.

It’s true as you say, distance doesn’t define love, we do.
We always find each other. I look up at the sky,
just in time to see the moon sneak through the clouds.
It whispers to me in sibilance.

For a moment you come closer. Comforted by the knowledge of you,
I speak to you in trees and air.
The gray eyes of the night translates my love diction,
as the Milky Way pours itself over two lovers
swept up on a star yet to be named.

-Tosha Michelle

https://youtu.be/v9oaMQYGH5s

You Know Who You Are

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I thought I’d post something lighthearted for a change. Don’t get use to it. 🙂

You Know Who You Are.
by Tosha Michelle

You who carry sunshine in
your hair, the sky in your hands,
and blueberry pie in your eyes

You who knows all the words
to every Chet Baker song.

Why don’t you come by my record shop?
I’ll teach you the percussive du wop

Come unearth my city plot.
Right my upside down heart
with the lilt of your melodic
voice.

Stain my soul with your graceful hands.

Sing me your red velvet tune
with not one note of sorrow.

Scrawl on my tongue
your heart song.
I’ll sing along.

Make music to a woman
not so young, but not yet old.
My mind a score of hunger.
Patterns of passion across
my face.

Don’t be afraid to improvise
summer nights composed of
bodies and sway.
Wingtip and rosehip.
We’ll create our
own tune.

The tenor sax takes the lead.
It sounds like desire,
like it won’t ever stop.

Let’s crack the night with needle and groove.
Two lovers infusing the dark with rhythm and spark.

I Love the Broken Ones

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Because I am scarred .
I find comfort in the broken ones
The flowers out of season.
The dark mornings.
The delinquent library books.
The residue that slips through.

The ones not half full but fully
shattered. The ones scarred by
bramble.

I fall toward them with open arms .

For those who are lonely, those
wandering city streets, lost.

I pack kindness in a carry on with
imperfections. The bag so full
it’s spilling over.

The challenge of life, making everything fit.

My back aches for all I tote. There
are exits all around me. The gift shop is giving away apathy.

But I’ve purchase humanity’s ticket and I’m not going back.

Realizing life is more than chiffon pie and summer afternoons.

Knowing it isn’t the sky that matters but how we fly through it.

Navigating with a fractured flight map of scars,
counter winds and all.

Compassion our wings
The destination, love.

-Tosha Michelle

https://youtu.be/86zvyxnhm10

Little Boy Blue and Mary Quite Contrary

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Dear Past,

It’s been awhile. I come waving a
flag of peace and unarmed.
My arsenal is depleted.
I have no time for hate or malice
laced air.
I imagine like me
you want to live in peace without
the threat of guns and
claws. To awaken to the sound
of serenity, not bombs going off
in the distance.

I hope hearing from me doesn’t cause you pain.
Frankly, I miss you. Your theatrical ways,
always leaning toward a Shakespearean tragedy.
No time for much ado about nothing.
Although, everything had to be as you like it.
How you were
a master at parlor games and word play.
Your eyes a depletion
of fallen leaves and green tea.
Hair as dark as a grackle.
Arch so charming, fencing with
unseen stars. Little boy blue,
and Mary. Mary, oh, so contrary.
How our garden did grow.
Shells that pelted the ground,
causing wreckage and carnage.
It wasn’t all welts and hell.
There were days when light swelled
and sliver bells grew.

But i digress, as I climb a slide of memories,
backwards with slippery hands.
My legs lose traction,
my lungs clog with dust.

I end up on the ground negotiating
with my untapped toe.
Trying to reclaim the beat with
half recounted facts
and nostalgia’s false sense of rhythm.
Holding a few cards in the hand you deftly dealt me.
Beside me lies a map, marred
by revisions.
that reads let it go. Let it go.

I stand up, and realizes there’s a
tear in my heart, that I
mistook for my sleeve. I walk through the open gate,
ignoring the stained alleyways,
cobble stone,
and street lights shaped like a question marks.
The scent of orchids lingers in
the tired air.
My soul fighting off bees and
the counter winds.
You, dear past, will always sting.

-Tosha Michelle

Granny

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I’m snapping green beans
I bought at the store today,
thinking they would remind me
of Granny and sitting
at the kitchen table,
listening to her “well,
when I was your age” stories.

Hoping that just for a moment
I could hug her again,
feel the sureness of her being,
her sweet familiarly.

Go back before dementia
stole her mind,
and cancer her body.
The days of sweet tea,
peppermints, and house dresses.

Granny could solve any problem
with a hickory stick or a stern look.

I miss her, even now years later,
I can’t help but compose
her in a poem- warm hands,
dark hair, sadness
that never left her eyes,
a lifetime of hardships

For a moment I’m ten again,
and Granny gives me her Irish grin.
Something soft but fierce about her.
Finding joy in an orderly
home and things done right.

How solid and healthy
she looks laboring away
over green beans.
Singing her favorite hymn
“In the sweet bye and bye”
Light shimmering through the room.
Real but unreal.

“We shall meet on that
beautiful shore”
Her notes gradually
becoming fainter.
The words descending,
echos from the past.
Love in every syllable.

I listen as evening opens
around me.
Sorrow changes its pitch.
Thee last of the sunlight
streams in the windows.
Swelling, even as it
disappears, even as it waves goodbye.

-Tosha Michelle

Swim

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The afternoon is sunny,
light falls warm
The breeze through the
car window full of lilacs

Soft air caresses your bare
arms. Everything is a hazy
green.

Nothing in the day speaks
of grief, but its there on
the news.

This should be a universe
of promise, of expectation.
The death of innocent lives,
feels so out of time with the
sky’s forget me not hue.

You think about rolling the car windows up,
shutting out the blossoming world.
letting winter settle in
Fear unpacking its suitcase
in your mind.

Consumed with rage over
black hearts and evil ways.
Terrorists stealing
what should be preserved

Their shrapnel of devastation,
an infinity of darkness
littering the ground
My hate is bigger
than your hate

You fight the urge to give in
to give up.
The world is breakable, but
your spirit is not.

We are all here trying to find
our balance on this broken
wheel.

Your heart constricts in a
fist of humanity.

Love pours out, gold as honey.
A living lightbulb goes off,
illuminating the transparent
glass of intimidation.

Hope waits beyond despair
You note how the heavens
embrace the sky.

The blue so deep, so thick
You could dive into it
You could swim in it
until you reach the other side-

Willfully Wild

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If your going to love,
love wilfully and wildly,
like a leaf on the wind
soaring out,
with abandonment.
Burn yourself through
for passion.
Make an altar of greater than.
Praise longing and
its insanity

Love bold men,
the ones like red umbrellas
with strong wooden
handles, and a fancy inscription,
big and deep, that makes you
feel like the daintiest
of ladies out for an
afternoon stroll,
his sheltering arms
keeping out the misty rain.

Let every idea you have
be love.
Study him like
you would the curve
of the horizon.
Follow your instinct,
lose the pattern.
Go where he goes.
Don’t let the sun disappear.
Let it swell
and put him first,
draw him closer,
until he believes in you
and the sky trembles
when you touch.

Fall
Fall
into his eyes, his thighs,
the pulse of his being.
Fall into ripeness, rightness,
until time is stripped away,
and your soul is cast in
forethought. Forethought
brushed in red and heat.
Never to be an afterthought.

If you’re going love, love
willfully and wildly until
you are spent, until the stars
shatter over the white tips
of pillowcase as two lovers
fall out of God’s mouth into
rapture.

-Tosha Michelle

My cover of The Eagles “Desperado” for Sunny Day

Hands Over Eyes.

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Abstract art by Yours Unruly

Hands Over Eyes

Stand behind me
Take your hands and
cover my eyes, so
I don’t see all
those doubts that
take flight in me,
so I have nothing new
to fear. No new
heartache to blindside me
Loss always coming
unannounced.

Whisper filthy things
in my ear, so it can
breathe deep your words,
drowning out the
voices in my head
screaming “be cautious”
Imploring me to not
be so reckless with
another one so
intoxicating.

Give me new skin
to touch
so I no longer feel
like a castaway
in dark harbor
full of scabs and scales

Let me feel your warmth,
as hope slips inside me.
Face to face now.
You teach me that
everything opens
with time- eyes. minds,
and even a heart damaged
by love undone.

-Tosha Michelle

Exquisite Hate

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Hate can be orgasmic
There’s a certain pleasure
that comes from loathing.
For example, I hate
Jason Derulo’s music
I hate it with an almost
palpable pleasure.
I equate it to the delight one
feels when shot nerves
reach their peak and
everything explodes
Throat, voice, heart.
Climaxing in a scream
that sounds almost as
awful and as sexual
as “Talk Dirty to Me”

There’s bliss in the
release. Freud might suggest
that perhaps Derulo’s music
is just a sign of something
deeper. He might say,
“Think back to your father”
Did I mention I hate Freud?
Electra complex this, creep.

I hate spinach, the ungodly
noise of motorcycles.
the word mucus, fake flowers
Nazis, porcelain dolls,
the scent of jasmine,
Fox News, texting
pumpkin spiced anything.
People who prefer socializing
to reading, the feel of wet hair,
Wimpy, whiny men.
I adore hating them.

Detesting is delightful
It tastes delectable on
my acerbic tongue
I’m addicted to abhorring.
And love loving
so much more for it.

-Tosha Michelle