You’re treading water, tantalizing your audience as they watch you sink deeper and deeper into the ocean.  They want you to fail as your vision blurs and your limbs shrivel with exhaustion.  You watch their pale faces with painted on smiles and take one last breath as you plunge into oblivion.  
But I don’t want you to go like that.  

I want to give you iridescent pearls so that when you take your last breath you feel beautiful and hold that breath in your heart until your posture becomes so confident that you finally know your worth.  I want you to believe that a white washed world isn't a “right” one but instead one that has become accepted by the same society that told you 245 years ago that you were property and your purpose in life was to serve those without melanin in their skin but steel in their hearts.  And the only difference between being branded by your slave owner is that now you pay $250 for that brand new pair of Jordans and participate in a sport where your leaders more often than not refuse to respect you as an individual but instead as a number followed by a k that can make them rich and you in pain.  

But you will succeed and no one will ever pierce your ebony skin because I promise you, I promise you that you are a speck of galaxy in world of pure Crayola.  You are brown, intelligent, and tall in a generation of ignorance of the fact that Michael Jackson wasn't trying to communicate to a certain race but instead a feeling but we associate everything with race.  When I am emotional I tend to not make sense but the thing is that YOU make sense so hold the microphone and speak to the world and one day instead of Martin Luther King being a memorial it will just be. To be.  

The only thing that scares me is that your night terrors tend to take place in front of mirrors where I cant protect you from shards of glass breaking your skin and tearing your self esteem apart.  And when you walk on graduation day and a white male hands you your diploma say thank you with your mouth and I made it with your eyes and then turn to your mom and hug her because in two years as you walk down the street in a dress suit and nice shoes instead of Jordans you realize that most of communication between the white male is non-verbal and all he's saying is, “get out” “you do NOT belong”.  They think it’s appropriate to act this way because the howl of your skin breeds intimidation and it is sadly accepted to just shoot
— you
not that it matters anyway

in this moment I want you to remember when you were seven years old and you rubbed white lotion into your knees thinking it would make your skin lighter your life lighter your problem lighter.  It didn’t.  Hold your head high for that seven year old now 27 year old brown child.
                                                                                            

And one day you will be happy because you are happy when you are loved.  So many in this world neglect you but love your culture.  Each year you complain about your routine becoming routine but go ahead and cry about your life because I know the zest in your tears reminds you of your Grandfathers cologne.  And I want you to start over, say hello to yourself.  Take a step back and bask in your beauty because that is you and you are close to perfect.  You can be magic.  

Touch the heart of the world and make it smile.  Marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing and don’t let the monsters in your head ruin your dreams.  And the people who don’t want you to succeed you need to destroy them in the most beautiful way possible.  And when you leave them for something greater they will finally understand why storms are named after people.

and as i tap on my keyboard making noises unspeakable i notice that
somewhere between the Y and the I is a U, and I wonder why apple would set up such a cliché
a metaphor I would want to use in times like this where my writing is vulnerable and uncouth
i can’t even be angry with you, against you pressing on your V line since
i knew the movie was bad
i mean i just knew it as soon as the VCR ****** in the thick, boxy, tape
that this film was going to be just like the others— immature and messy,
you were unable to articulate the simplest of my sentences

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you didn’t even look new, you weren't even an opportunity
you told me you were willing to be the elevated beam in my single music note that we would create harmonies even my mother would like to hear
but she hated you
and you didn’t understand why I liked Bach more than Mozart, or why I didn’t like Mozart at all
you weren't a gentleman, but I am beginning to think those don't exist until well into our 30s
when our hearts are tender enough to feel empathy
you don’t deserve a poem, or the image of heaven

the capital letters you rained in my text messages made my eyes open a little bit wider
i went to cvs and i bought the twix the blanket and the *****
we used to do that together
asian men still write me poems for the morning, i walk out of dorm rooms with water that never knew the cold
and my head it; pounds from dehydration, its been a while since I’ve been in love
but some us are
in love i mean
the dumb ones, the despicable ones
how are they achieving something the kids with 4.0 gpa’s couldn't make an equation for

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and why the hell do i keep looking at my phone, waiting for your name to shine bright telling me what to do what to say

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why did you sleep with her, on her, side by side, parallel making hexagons and trapezoids keeping me out of the loop
why did i say ok

the maroons and reds of your youth echoed in my heart creating a fire the aorta couldn't fathom
i watched you from greenhouses where flowers unveiled their beauty when you touched-
i can still see your eyes, dark, so dark where’d they go? why can’t i see the moon anymore?
me drinking cotton candy bullets as if you engraved my name in the single metal alloy
where is my name on your journals, i thought you said you loved me?