The greedy little ladybugs
eagerly waited to mourn me,
to don their black spots as veils
meant to cover the raw redness of their bloodlust.
and hoping that I would return the favor.
I woke up on the right side of the tracks today
...but I still might get hit by a train.
I can't write poems
because they won't give me a pen
because they're afraid that I'll **** myself with it.
But what they don't know
is that I'm not the perfect Venn diagram
that I'm not creative enough
or desperate enough
to use a ballpoint
or a fountain
or a quill
to hang myself
or poison myself
or slit my wrists.
And because they won't give me a pen,
I can't write poems
She kept laughing
even though it wasn’t funny,
shrinking in the presence
of two men sent to interrogate her
about her purity,
the red brand hidden under her tongue
that she tried to hide under nervous giggles,
tried to mask with inappropriate joviality.
She tried to desperately communicate what had made her
choose the wrong side of the road
between laughter and sobbing.
to make them understand
what had made them think of her as a hysterical and trivial woman,
the stereotypical horrible driver,
unable to stay in her emotional lane.
I was a little black girl
growing up in the land of white picket fences,
lacking my own,
but fenced in by those who had them.
If I was ever to make it over those barriers,
I’d have to let go of a few things.
So I disowned my ***** hair,
and refused to listen to Chris Brown
or eat watermelon or fried chicken in public.
But I was still weighed down by my consciousness of being the “other”,
the outsider trapped on the inside,
the oil slick in the ocean
still not buoyant enough to stay afloat.
And in all of my futile attempts to surpass them,
I just ended up impaling myself
on those white picket fences.
You could be my Jericho,
your blasphemous lover.
you remind me a lot of your brother.
same delicate temperament,
but i could break through your walls with a twitch of my garish fingers.
you could be my Jericho
and i could be your blasphemous lover.