My father was always one notch on his bedpost close to hypocrisy
and my mother was a couple notches shy of getting there-
she never dabbled in multiracial relationships like my father did.
You see when I was growing up
I had a crush on the little mixed boy down the street
and I was afraid of telling anybody
but it wasn't because of his skin-
but because ew, feelings. Right?
I never saw just black and white,
skin color was never a forefront
it was all just background noise-
to me it was all just gray.
There's no handbook about who you connect with
and there's no color scheme that's gonna show you who to trust.
I realized that because before I had a boyfriend
No black people where allowed at my house
not because they didn't want me hanging out with black people-
but because they were afraid I would end up with one.
Segregation was my father's second nature
and I would like to blame it on the era he was born-
even though I'm really not so sure.
And now that I have a boyfriend everything is fine...
It's like in their mind the more melanin the more sin
I'm sorry father and mother but there is no color coordination
to this thing we call life-
I never grew up afraid of colors because I loved rainbow-
I never grew up scared of the skin that wasn't like mine
just because of all the stories these white folks like to tell-
But the funny thing is
it was a white male, and a white female that molested me....
And my parents probably would've warned me
about the mixed boy down the street-
so really? who should we be afraid of?

Everyone. Equally.

Is there enough life to give in This world?
I see it
Drowning in the hardships of
Picking up pennies to pay for a meal
And spending forty- five dollars on two days of making nothing fun.

I'm smoking a cigarette that I started earlier, that I thought I was finished with earlier.

My father drowns his sorrow in beer and blames his problems on yesterday.
My mother sings caskets and has a gift reciept for every time she's ever "loved"  me.

My life has consisted a lot of scraping by
And I'm Down to the last few layers of skin
Before the burning concrete creates a river of blood for Moses to walk through

Isn't it so simple?

What is, hasn't always been.
And what was has changed for a reason.

The reason
I still breath
I still laugh
I still love
I still write,
Is because you picked the grapes off the walls , growing around my heart
And before they turned to raisins,
You poured wine into my bloodstream..
Drunk off of your warm touch and dazzling smile,
I swallow the alphabet and hiccup compliments,
Keeping My eyes on yours
So as to not get lost in the treasure map hidden in your laughter.

My stomach flutters.

I grab your hand.

You squeeze mine tighter

My heart flickers.

I love you.

My pillow case knows what crying yourself to sleep tastes like
And my shower echoes every life changing thought I've ignored.
Underneath empty dishes,
Abandoned rellos,
Vacated cigarette packs,
Miscellaneous knick knacks
And a game boy color
Is a desk.
And on that desk are millions of scratches
Recording the lonely thoughts of a crowded mind.

Eat the flesh off my fingertips
To erase my finger prints
Cause I don't know who the **** I am.

I sit here.
Lips stained with cigarettes.
I don't know what to do.
My mind has been clouded.
Unhinge my scalp and breath in.
My soul trembles at my fingertips.
Paper cuts under my nails.
I bleed love.
My problems are tangled in my hair.
I can't shave it cause I'm supposed to be an adult.
I pack my fears into a briefcase.
My eyes heat my bedroom.
The fire you started didn't go out after you left.
I extinguish sadness with numbness.
My bed is a cave.
I have been frozen in its glaciers.
To cold to move.
Save me.

Take it away-
Every emotion and strong-will I possess
throw it out the ******* window, as you jump-
wishing your insides would rot in inverse
as you yell back at me to do something-
but you're already falling to your death
and I can't stop the car because its leading me
to my future and I can't stop time
because I'm not ******* god
and I can't take away the hurt though I wish I ******* could.
I. Can't. Do. Anything. Anymore.
It's funny because these words kiss the page
like an abusive uncle that kissed your mother
against her will but you can't tell anyone
because you're trying to keep what's left of your family together-
It's ink, it's permanent and other people have experienced it to
but not like you, oh **** never like you.
So I take what was mine from the ******* start
and hope I can turn something so tragic
into this thing we like to call art, and poetry
but it seems to me I need a ******* lobotomy
because I don't know what to think or feel or do anymore..
All I know is that I had something once,
held it close to my heart like a pistol
and let everyone witness me playing russian roulette with myself
as the clock strikes game over and the gun is fully loaded
they watch as I pull and pull the trigger until I have nothing left
until blood shed is all over the kitchen floor
and you start to wonder how you're ever going to eat there again
But everyone around you is watching in awe
and saying "let me try".
But little do they know the bloodshed is staining those tiles now
and you're having trouble getting back up....
You left a bloodstain on your new t-shirt
and it kind of represents your blatant disregard
and my foolish naivety thinking things would turn out different.
"Maybe this time, I can help"
but as my face hit the floor and my memory left me
I woke up in a cold sweat, shaky and hazy
and I realized this time was different-
I was shaken up for three days after that
not knowing which house was mine to own
not knowing which words I always chose-
my mind blank on a page for the first time
in weeks, and months and days
you subconsciously shook me
paralyzed with fear, I was crushed by the weight.
So I come to the page that has been my pistol
and put that to my chest once again
but everyone thinks this is just a trend
just something we all do for pretend or therapy-
not me, this is somewhere between mourning and the purgatory.
So take it away, I never had it anyway.

I'm tired of written apologies you don't have the guts to speak-
Poets use words and letters and metaphors to explain how they feel
but you, you use a paint by numbers
and it seems to me I've ran out of every color
so now you're just a blank page staring back at me
tempting me to write my own apologies
because I somehow feel bad for you having to say sorry.
These days can become the flat tire on your car on the way to a funeral
but I will always be there to bring you light
even when you take your lack of apologies
and use them to knock out the lights on the ceiling fan-
I will wait in the dark until you decide to change the bulb.
But you never do-
so I'm left there picking up shards of lightbulb
as my hands bleed and spell out your apologies
and I look up at you and ask for help
but it seems you are stuck inside your own mind
your own world until the mess is cleaned up
and the light returns and then I'm stuck here apologizing
for getting blood stains on your t-shirt.
I understand dismay, and the ability to be distraught-
but I don't understand being someone else's peacoat
there to keep you warm until its no longer needed.
I just want to be appreciated.