there is slavery in my blood
cut me open watch the lynchings pour out
this is my history
you look at my skin and you see beauty in its light
in the whiteness inherited from a father
who still isn't sure how to love a child
much less himself
you look at my skin
and you expect
you expect self hatred to burn like the darkness of my mother's face
you expect scars to riddle forearms and thighs
a memoir to every long night spent alone in the company of a knife
you expect me to compensate and to cope
you expect alcohol to stain my breath and a black man's hand to stain my face
and yet you crave me like a sin
like my body is a blessing and a curse meant to please you
i am pretty for a black girl
but not black enough to be recognized
i am thick thighs and soft lips
and you want me on my back with my hands shackled
you'll take me back to the days when black bodies
were huddled in the belly of a ship
black bodies shivering as their deaths rose up on the horizon
you'll wrap a rope around my neck and pull
get it just tight enough to reminisce
pour me a glass of whiskey and say
look, there ain't no more strange fruit that didn't get put their by their own kind
we is kind to you
we is a blessing to you
accept my hands accept my mouth
let me love you like a slave master love's a whip
i will hold you like a tool and your body will leave marks on your brothers' backs
let me love you
i will teach you whiteness
teach you supremacy
teach you fear of the black man
and worship of a white man's dollar
i will keep you civilized girl now get down on your knees it is time to worship

now let me explain
there may be slavery in my blood
but let me show you what floods from my veins like a blessing
let me cut myself open and you can take a look
the only self hatred here is meant to act like a guard dog
keep my teeth sharp and ready to sink into your neck
see the anger that i set a blaze to keep your hands and your mouth as far from my skin as possible
you think i taste of mocha and a wild night in bed
but i taste more like bloodied knuckles and the teeth of a man who tried to touch me without my permission
i am a goddess before i am your lover
i am a queen before i am your blessing
and i will never be your curse
you want my body
it comes with everything else
every scream that rips from my voice as a black body falls by your father's hands
every tear that falls from my eyes as you try to shorten the distance between my body and a grave
you want to purchase me
then you're going to need more than money
gods are worth more than your slave trade will make you
queens won't bow if you aren't knighted
and the king doesn't want to knight a slave master for his abuse and his dehumanization
his animal hands and swallowing mouth
i may bleed your history of anger
but i will die before i gift it to you in a pretty package
the only present you'll be having is the one in which i am a human just as much as you are
now get down on your knees
it is time to apologize

and god looked down and he said
my child
my child
this is a war that i can not fight for you
my hands are tied
and yes you will lose your brethren
yes you will watch them fall
but i am here
i am here
and the soldiers looked up
they spread their arms wide
hands open
palms up
funeral pyres blooming across their skin
eulogies dripping desert dry eyes
my lord
my lord
they said
their voices shaking like mothers at their children's graves
you have not forsaken us
but you have not fought us
our hands are tied lord
our hands are bloodied
ropes dangle from our wrists like pericles' speeches
we can not praise what we have not seen
we can not take blessings from a benefactor
who can not
will not
visit our graves
will not dig the graves
will not build the coffins
gives blessings to the enemy
but requests our praise
our hands are tied
our hands are tied

there used to be these things
not quite animals
not quite gods
but so close
so close
they were huge you know
and they flew
and the tree tops barely brushed
their bellies
and they made this noise
not a roar
but just as intense
maybe like a symphony
rumbling up from their stomachs
and exploding into the world
like a cannon blast
or the shriek of a mother
as her child dies
or the sound of a breaking heart
these things
they were beautiful
they were beautiful
i miss them sometimes
they were my friends
but they're dead now
dead and gone
i miss them sometimes
they were beautiful

paranoia is a terrible thing

she said that i wasn't good enough
okay she didn't say it
but she was thinking it
i know she was thinking it
she's always thinking it
i would be thinking it
i'm always thinking it
what if she hates me
what if she wishes i was never born
what if she wishes she'd gotten an abortion
what if she looks at me
and sees every dead dream from her childhood
in my palm
the house she wanted to live in
in my mouth
the loving husband she never got
in my eyes
the children who listened
who obeyed
who were beautiful
and acceptable
and quiet
and smart
and never talked back
i hate her
i hate her
i hate her
she hates me
i hate myself

paranoia is a terible thing
it builds up walls you don't need
and refuses to tear them down
creates a careful system of winding hallways
each new passage lined with bedroom doors
that if you open them
let a flood wash out
and each flood contains some new and unique mantra
something spicy in room 302
something salty in room 904
something ugly in all of the rooms
something ugly in you
paranoia is a terrible thing

my mother was born into a family of angry people
her mother
my grandmother
had palms like wasp stingers
sharp and quick to strike
her father
my grandfather
drove around the islands in his wife's truck
with his girlfriend
went from binge drinking to bible thumping
turned on a dime
i guess that explains somethings about my mother
my mother has never raised her hand against me
not in the way that her parents did
she was always restrained
always stopped
always preferred to send me to my room
always wanted me to just stop misbehaving
i was always misbehaving
sometimes i would watch her hands as she spoke
and wish
praying
that she'd just
snap
and drag both palms across my face
give me a reason to call the cops
hello
please help
i need to get away
i need to get away
im trapped and i need to get away
help me get away
please
please
please

paranoia is a terrible thing
it's like a skipping record
playing the same four seconds of a song
on repeat
for three days
until something bumps it
and suddenly there's a new soundbyte
a new clip to listen to on repeat for a year
or two
or a life time
im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry im sorry
help me help me help me help me help me
i didn't mean to i didn't mean to
please don't hate me
please mom
please
please
paranoia is a terrible thing

You wake up and you're a little bit tired
but you're a lot angry
and you pour your coffee black
even though you hate it
because you need something to taste as bitter
as your clenched fists feel
and you can't quite figure out what it is
what's making your fingers twitch like the trigger of a gun
what's making your eyebrows knit themselves together
like a wall between your face and the rest of the world
and then you describe your eyebrows like a wall between yourself
and the rest of the world
and you giggle
and you remember that the world isn't all that bad
just look at the children who hold puppies
like snowflakes falling
or the biker gangs who surround a little girl
to drive off her attacker
or the art
or the music
or the food
just look at the food
and you pour out your black coffee
because you never liked your coffee black anyway
and tomorrow you plan to wake up different
wake up happy

it is an injustice
and when it happens
your fists clench
teeth grinding against each other
as you bite down hard
and hold back the voice that
they've already silenced
you see
there are three kinds of people that the world loves
four kinds if it's a good day and the sky is blue
five if you squint
six if you close your eyes
seven if you never listen to the screams
eight if you stop being able to feel sorry
for the dead boys in the street
and the girls whose hijabs are starting
to resemble bandages on top of war wounds
like their existence is something that
some enemy with more guns than compassion
can't bear to see
but there are three kinds of people that the world loves
the rich
the white
the cishet male
it seems if you have money
then you get what you need
if you skin is the color of cream
you get what you want
if your body matches the on/off binary
that some dead white guy built up
in a desparate attempt at stifling
a world he didn't understand
then you get safety
if your love can fit neatly
in teh confines of a church
whose god is more disappointment
than righteous anger
because the time for anger was years ago
the time for anger was dead men and women
people with stars in their front windows
and people with triangles on their breastpocket
the time for anger
was a young girl
staring at a young girl
as her parents threw her to the dogs
as her flesh was torn for teh sake of blessings
as her body was cursed for the sake of god
as her existence was removed
erased
ignored
for teh sake of someone else's comfort
you see the world is a bad place
full of battles that no one wants to fight
full of wars that no one wants to see
and you will stand some day
in front of a sea of people
and try to profess yourself a prophet
you will proclaim your news good
you will paint peace across your forehead
like that will distract from the blood on your hands
but by your silence they will know you
by your soft steps
your late entrance
your blank face at the sight of their dead children
they will recognize you for what you are
and their fists will clench
their teeth will grind against one another
as they bite down hard
and hold back a voice that they
that you
already silenced

and my hips have bruises from the last man to call me beautiful
but maybe this story isnt mine
i always end up with the wrong words in my mouth
words that hail from bodies full of scars and cuts and long lonely nights and a bottle of pills that almost got swallowed and a phone call that saved a life
words that pour out of bodies hanging in poplar trees with their necks bent to the side like their raising their ears to heaven hoping to hear one last call from that angel's horn
words that taste too much like hell to fit with what little bit of heaven i get to live in
but my hips have bruises from the last man to call me beautiful
the bruises come from my own hands
my own hands turned claws
metal, grasping, crushing
digging into my hips like leaving bruises will make the words go away
it's not that i can't take a compliment
i mean
i can't take a compliment
but
i don't want this
i don't want this gift that won't fit into the puzzle of me
this piece with too many out-connectors and not enough in-connectors
this piece whose image is too bright
too colorful
too flavorful
too dreamy
too beautiful to match the devestation that i've built up
i'm too broken to be called beautiful
and not broken enough to complain
you see
i was raise the way you raise a good strong oak
take an acorn and dig a hole
drive that nut so far into the dark soil that you can't see it's top anymore
stomp the world flat again
and forget
but i was also raised the way a gallows is raised
with the reminder of all those that were hanged before
and the names of all those who will be hanged
my mother taught me how to mourn things that weren't my own
she gave me the gift of tears for others and took the tears i had for myself
she took so much
she was like Big Business or The Government
always asking for handouts and then getting mad when people don't want to pay up
my father just left
he didn't bother with goodbyes or sorrow or regret or fear or hesitation
he opened the door to a room just far enough away that i couldn't reach him
and plugged himself into a virtual world
one where his broken mirror reflection of his american dream would never catch up with him
and it worked
so now here i am
taking these words from a man's lips
wrapping both hands around them tightly
refusing to let go until the are crushed to dust
this is not a compliment it is a curse
a brand
hot metal pressing into skin and lifting smoke and screams to an eagerly awaiting sky
so i grab my own hips
leave hand prints there as often as possible
hoping to distract enough that i don't have to do this again
but then
maybe this isn't my story