Her lips are dark like purple.
I stare and wonder how they got that way, not shocked when she whips a lighter out when it's requested.
Her boyfriend is a stoner so I'm not utterly shocked. I'm just shocked at the music that flows out of those purple lips. From high to low from hums to raps she keeps going no matter the song, so
easy. Just as easy as it is to listen. God
bless the DJ.

Fifteen year old Alanda got a boyfriend over the 4th of July weekend. "His name is Snow."
I marveled at the pride she had in saying his name. She might as well have had "Property of Snow" stamped across her forehead. And I knew if the opportunity presented itself she would.

"Awe, how cute. I was your age the last time I had a boyfriend. Wow that was almost 4 years ago."

"What!? But you're so pretty, and so nice!" She said it as if that was the recipe for being with someone. As if pretty and nice equals never having to say you're single.
I tried to explain that it's difficult finding a black man on this campus when black women outnumber the men. I tried to explain that many of these men know they are capable of many women. They know it's okay to love selfishly. The same way I know my worth.

"So you're gonna go on
blackpeoplemeet.com?"

Always proving me right. I won't mind him though because soon enough he'll see how ****** up one can feel watching them pay more mind to someone else. I didn't interrupt him, I didn't throw one ounce of shade. i danced, I laughed, i continued my night as if he never had showed up. As if I didn't see him in my peripheral vision whispering in her ear, dancing pelvis to pelvis. nah. It wasn't worth me breaking a sweat because I know I don't want that much. I may not even want him at all. So it doesn't bother me because on the off chance that I maybe would want him, he would be ******* it up each day. Taking advantage of being cared about. It's obnoxious. I throw in the towel easily, and his cockiness does not attract me. It's amazing how someone can look so different in a matter of weeks, and now I'm not really sure what I'm seeing, but I know I'll forget about him once I've left. maybe then he'll be able to see.

Just when I was thinking my crush was one sided, he asked me if I wanted to dance. Usually I only dance with someone when there's enough people dancing that it doesn't really matter, but this time I didn't care. I wasn't (that) drunk, and there weren't that many people there. I wanted to dance with him though. So as he grabbed my hand as R.Kelly played I felt his hips behind me, his hands keeping me balanced, his back slipping lower as his legs opened wider. I saw people looking but I just didn't care, he didn't either. And before the song ended we left because his hands kept wandering to my **** "So you're just gonna keep caressing my *** huh?" "You never said stop". I didn't.

So we snuck out into a stairwell for him to stare at me until I smiled, telling me how weird I am in the best way. And I stared back until his eyes wandered down to my lips, my chest, my hips. Finally.

It was just a dream, but I awoke wondering why exactly I would dream of such a catastrophe. Maybe I have a subconscious fear of a hate for not only by race but my *** being institutionalized within my society. I skimmed through my brain searching for events that may have triggered so many tragedies:

My voice is rarely heard.
Swallowed deep into a throat of men who close their ears to avoid
the risk of damaging their eardrums with my pitchiness.
Forever straining to shout a little louder, speak a little deeper, so maybe my message is heard by my counterpart the first time.

Constantly I am undermined.
"it's fine" my male counterpart states to a student that has broken the rules.
He encourages the disrespect of his female counterparts and students simply by being more of a friend than an authoritative figure. He knows his privilege and chooses to sleep on it.

I'm tossed to the side. In a room full of people, I am drowning in myself. Isolated simply because I get frustrated with trying to catch the attention of someone that loves the spotlight. Feeding into his need to constantly be seen, by seeing him it causes him to do more to be seen. He doesn't realize I prefer smaller conversations, inside jokes, lower tones. Those moments when you can hear someone smile and eye contact is unavoidable.

I dreamt of a black women holocaust because I was feeling powerless.
As if my role in the work was losing value. My presence fading away to the point where i physically feel small. Reminiscent of my 12 year old self that didn't know how to speak up, nor how to be strong. My 12 year old self that didn't know it was okay to be prideful of my black feminisms, nor that I can be content in my lonely. All alone in rooms full of people.
But in my dream the goal was to rid me from these rooms, rid these people of me.

Maybe my dream was more than a dream.

They were trying to rid the world of us that day.
Twenty four hours to take us captive long enough to make us hate ourselves.
It was confusing at first simply because it was unheard of in 2014, but this day was an exception.
"What'd we do wrong?" My sister and I exclaimed as the officer lunged at us weapons in hand.
He couldn't answer besides continuing to ensure us that we were a problem just being ourselves.
We ran, made them trip over themselves as we took shelter in a basement of others just like us in hiding.
They didn't know either. Our mothers had warned us to stay put, first time they forced us not to come home just because the risk was too high. Twenty four hours to wipe us out.
I dreamt last night of a black women holocaust.

Full of life
I can't squeeze a word in most times
He can't hear my voice
He's drowning in himself