I'm almost twenty, you know. I mean, I'm sure you don't care but i'm almost twenty years old. And I'm trying. To be all the things you said i would be and I'm not going to question all the rules you've set out for me because i need that foreboding affirmation of love so just know that I'm never gonna leave. Because were it not for you, who would i be? But I'm also struggling To figure out if I am actually a talented artist Or just some teenage kid going through stuff. i need To see the answers at the back of the book of Life if there's such a thing I feel. Oh Lord! I feel tired already. Like i could quit But i can't I'm already nineteen years into this ****. And I'm already tryna make people take me seriously. And I'm trying. To pretend that i understand why old people are so entitled to an earth that might actually be revolting against the human race That i know, why it is super ultra important to be the kind of feminist that is kind to misogynists That i even want, to be part of an existence that so closely resembles a shitshow That i even know, how to turn my feelings into a proper rhyme. I don't. Honestly and i don't care. So i won't even try to pretend that woke mans are not the **** and that i don't think, gay people deserve peace and that I don't wish, child marriages was something i could fix and that i don't think, that I'm going to marry an intersectional feminist and that i don't think, that instead of vows he's going to recite to me his poetry and that i actually need you to tell me that these are all teenage fantasies. I don't. I've had nineteen years of this ****. And i’m just glad i don't have to pretend That i love pink , i do even though i wish i didn't And that i know i can take nineteen more years if only it means More badly written poetry from beautifully imperfect teens And more African literature and Twitter and sleep More discussions with bae about the importance of memes More inventive ways to show bae i exist. I might be getting carried away but you see what i mean. That i want everything this life has to give Just no struggles. no pretence.no assumptions. and no guilt.
Turning 20 on Monday and honestly i might be going insane.
The day the ships came my ancestors we not of the aware of the forced melting *** that would come into existence The combination of french and spanish confused the delta slaves Little did they know that neither language would stick on their burnt excuses of tongues The days the ships came New Orleans became the beacon of mulatos And although the conquistadors could **** and beat their slave wives Their spanish advances were not reciprocated due to lack of of heat to complete the melting The languages that conquered the delta were combined into something that no outsider would want to encounter That’s why the Americans came and took it like they did the rest of the country They mistake the magic for voodoo then rebranded it for themselves Centuries later the delta is still a melting *** But it’s one my grandmother’s tongue was forced to forget Her languages were lost next to her mulatto slave ancestors, left to spoil So now when people ask “If you’re hispanic why can’t you speak spanish?” I can barely find the words in english to explain the years of torture my tongue has endured When spanish speaking couples walk into my work My tongue is eager to spill words it wishes it had the ability to create My blood begins to hate itself over the fact that a third of itself is unrecognizable My tongue is still waiting for the new boats to arrive and reconcer it All it knows is to be conquered No self defense here When all you know is to be conquered It becomes a challenge to think for oneself My tongue can’t decide if english, spanish or french is better My creole mind is yelling thousands foreign curse words not knowing which one is a true sin Maybe the sin here is letting the burner stay on too long The day the ships came My slave ancestors looked at their spanish lovers and said “My love, what shall we do once the french arrive?” With their eyes looking into the horizon the conquistadors replied “Es no problema para mi, pero tu, tu es la propiedad de estos” Which according to simple history books means “Good luck”
If only your skin was a lighter shade Here, this bleach might come to your aid If only your lips weren't so full Maybe the boys would like you at school If only your hair wasn't so ***** Here's some caustic chemicals to make it more slinky If only your ******* weren't so large Here's the number to a surgeon, call and see what they charge If only your waist was smaller (just a few inches) Here's a corset, see how tiny it cinches? If only your *** wasn't so round How 'bout you run some laps to lose a few pounds? If only you'd get your nose out of books I bet you'd garner more stares for your looks If only you'd change your curious personality I hear the masses prefer banality
If only you'd see me for me Do you know how content I'd be? If you can't do that Then leave me be.
A collection of things people have said to me over the years. I have developed a cynical complex because of it.
Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the *******-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come. You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.
Abortions will not Let you remember the child Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
My skin is infused with rich melanin Shining, glistening in the light My lips are plump echoeing the song Beautiful a capella, melody strong The sweet honey stare of my eyes Looking up at the heavens into the skies My natural hair it never flows A blooming flower it still grows The span of my hips so wide Up and down in confidence I stride Because I am black. I am beautiful.