I'm tired of
dewy rosie golden me
for she was pretty
but she is not the same
as when those shades were the change she needed

i could be that girl
whose voice is low and melodic
and coats your mouth with
acacia honey
whose eyes are the color
and depth of
midnight
whose presence is thick like
new york summers
rosy like
los angeles in early spring
if i braid flowers into my hair
if i write enough poems
if i learn to show the skin of my essence
but remain an abyss—
i will stop making art
when i become it

As I look
towards my future
I see all of the order
expectations
assumed color
and I know I will not be with my own.

I hope that I can find a place,
before it eats me alive.

Hurricane Katrina was menacing
It was all over the news
People were being told to evacuate
In order for one another to be safe
But the hurricane in my head
Goes unnoticed
And people simply tell me
“Get over it”