When they talk of love
darkness envelopes you
you bleed into paper tears dripping on feathers
slow as the kiss of death
when they talk of love
you shrink back into a star
bright you flicker
as you bleach your heart into salt
when they talk of an ever ending love
you run on clipped wings
flapping soundless as a thief
tripping and flying
when they talk of a failed love
you stand arrogant shaking your hips
to a tune from your sculpted mouth
you twirl life a leaf in bliss about to mate with the sun
you carve the smirk into your soul with super glue
when they turn to you for comfort
you take their nimble hands into your eyes sockets and let the tears drown them
your clothes permeated with bitter dark chocolates and blue rainbows
you hug them close while you watch them sink with a smirk
i am filled
with the possibility of fear unsure of how to move, of how to breathe, yet with the rise of the sun i become a master performer, one foot in front of the other taking note of the rise of the chest, i move in slow agony plowing through life
not a dreamer i settle for the sleepless night, eyes glued to the blue walls unable to whisper a prayer into my thirsty hands
i lay wide awake
the need to cry grabs and holds me captive
all is well is well,
all is well and the breaking commences, the hands attentive to the need to collect every single laughter into a bottle
nothing rises. nothing sounds
so i turn to face you and watch as you attempt to dream with the restlessness of youth and i become a prisoner to your black curls
this life hurts to breathe into, the pockets sagging with each rejection, you begin to think the world’s air is polluted, and begin to wonder what would your dream taste like, will there be a hint of spice to highlight the need for a breath?
I come to you for a fixing
“tell me a story” I beg
you respond, “ listen to your heartbeat”
the price of a failed boy is a woman who was born a girl. this is about girls
about the first born who were meant to be boys but were born girls clothed in boys attire since birth to perfect the dreams of parents who prayed for a son, the marker of success, the marker of pride.
the marker of shame
the markers of failure
the markers of scars she carries between her legs will be her clothing, her language
she will meet the other first borns- birthed right, the boys.. who played being boys like boys and lived in the wings of their fathers. boys…
Yet, she will not fear.
Like they too, she sports the haircut, her imprints on the ball. She too will know his waist, as she rides like boys, but never like great men. Her father beamed with pride, and she beamed belonging among great men.
When her sister is born, she will learn that girls who dresses as boys but will be read as failed girls becoming great men. She will be read as a child play. It will be pulled right of her tights by great men and it will fall into her lap and she will carry it with each scar that he will inflict. .They will beat her voice out of her, whisper if she died, it would not matter to me while smiling, and scope her childhood with their right middle finger. From that day on, she will learn to wear her skirts loosely around her tights, sporting the cut ready for a ride.
we held our breaths praying it was the fourth of July on a humid summer day in August. Chicago.
the screeching of the black car. gone. a life lost.
A laugh missed, a smile missed. all gone in four seconds. no screams, no shots, the wailing of the ambulance, the police cars. the bodies taking into account the lost. yet no sounds from the beings.
They are dead. she said. pop..
gone goes the illusion of home. gone goes the dreams.
i hope they died happily. they died close to their goals and dreams. may they be mourned with laughter of joy and sadness.
the vilification and dehumanization of black and brown folks.
Replaced de-placed by white skins and their weapons (police ) as their dogs piss in the eyes of our children