brutality on black bodies
Even a blue dust bathed bra soaked in the sweat of my sun soaked skin bites.
Bites into tender sides
Pinches soft parts
A wire to my lung
A sternum on fire with irritation
I am bound.
Stuck in the illusion of safety – when the very things that cling to my sides could kill me at any moment
I must hide my breath and hold my heart…
A bright bird wings beating
Bashed in, time and time again
As the ways of the world claw into me.
Crack my rip cage open between the sobs that rack me
And grab grab grab my frightened bird
Always trying to dash her in the dirt.
Sometimes I think it would be easier to let her fly away.
I wish I too could join her.
Away from hands that pick
Bindings that poke
And the terror to breathe full breaths as I fly so free.
As i wander through this city thinking, thinking, thinking, I realize a few things in part.
I run to this ideal of beauty that I feel my body betrays because I am so lonely and starving for intimacy.
Like all of us I want to be held, affirmed, loved by someone I feel connection to.
I realize though as I disocciate and fall out of panic…I am me.
Everything I often want to burn out of my brain are some of my greatest gifts.
I am lonely and human. I am a writer even if I struggle daily to write…
I am a bleeding heart sewn roughly to a sleeve of a shirt I want to tear off.
This bleeding heart is my humanity and my ability to love.
My pussy isn’t a begging bowl.
I do no offer it open and pleading
trying to capture any affection you should choose to fill it with.
Do you imagine that later I sift through the contents while lying on the cold tiled bathroom floor?
Fingers deep in my cunt searching for something resembling love as your reckless indecision pours out white and sticky onto my thighs?
My mouth isn’t trying to hold your tongue between my teeth.
Why would I silence a voice I have pleaded to hear so many times? Do you know how much of my own blood I swallow each time I bite down on the words your actions make me fearful to say?
I do not tie your hands together with my pink rope. Neither do I shackle your feet to one place with gold bands, red silk, nor the weight of so much guilt.
I only offered water, asked for stories, and gave you the warmth of my bed to rest from your days of running.
All the while seeing the expanse of your dreams and hoping you would not cower at the sheer magnitude of my own.
Pleasure in minutes, moments, even morsels.
Pleasantries in teas.
Traveling to get the tea.
The halo of a street light on the way there.
The scent of the tea brewing.
That first sacred sip.
They push me through, past a deep nothing into wonderment.
I don’t wake when I should, so I stare and glory at a lamp.
My prayers are written in careful neat writing to all that is ordinary.
My shelves are tidy.
My hats are where they “should” be.
Invisible battles won.
Seeing the good.
I seek out possibility.
I hold on to her fast.
I raise her from the dead when no light exists.
Every night requires incantation.
When my heart beats and I sweat, praying for sleep.
Sick with anxiety. Riddled with failure.
Dying for a rhythm that allows me to speak a language with those that walk illuminated by her light.
Me a mere shadow looming large
May I always find sanctuary in the simple