To: Sarah Joyce Crimson*                                                     8th July 1943                                                  

A man in a gray suit has captured my heart, mother
Along with the tie, of course
Surrounding plants would've died
At his gaze and grace

Armored charm and wide toothed smile
His last name could've might as well been poise  
I don't know what it is about him, mother
But his gentle crinkled eyes certainly isn't  

His voice is as flattering as the lullaby you once sang
The tone itself symbolizes warmth and stability
Undiscovered treasure in the midst of all volumes
It is home I feel closest to when I catch a glimpse of it in my ear

I don't know whether to feel astonished or quivered
By all means, that'd be deemed as eerie
But you once said when a man one day turned my cheeks bright pink
It sure could only mean one thing

It is unreliably evident not to notice me blush
It is even more apparent not to notice his blunt stare
Sending chilly shivers down my spinal cords
Activating fondness I'd never in a million years imagine I'd sense

If only you were here to see for yourself
How proud I'd make you, indeed
You said one day I'll be able to marry, mother
Well, this day isn't as far planned as it once seemed  

                                                       ­               *From: Christine Louise Crimson

I wear this costume you
provide
And recite the script you
wrote.
I shove myself aside
to live in the shadows of
this person you created.
I live this lie daily.
With no breaks in character.
Have I pleased you yet?
Are you satisfied with
my performance?
Now that I've changed myself
for your enjoyment,
do you love me?
Because I'm *******
dying.

Sinister ministers deliver scriptures per
Illicit missions to present religious works for intrinsic worth
Men amended an "Amen" to end to the verse
Then apprehended the script they knew Kemet had written first

I’m in the blemish my kin is a part of the sin it hurts
Given my hair and skin were both considered dirt since the birth
It’s printed in their gospel I’ve been getting worse since the curse
It’s vivid plagiarism for the villain to get the perks

I want to learn
script, so maybe
I can feel as pretty
as my handwriting.

I do not get paid to be an extra
in someone's story. The director
does not offer me notes or cues
on when to interact with the other characters.
I am only there, standing alone
eyes darting around for a subject to speak with.
Even the antagonist drops their sight. The other extras
barely glances at me. Their role is just the same as mine,
but they're hoping they'll outshine me. They brush shoulders,
fingers, as they bump against the crowd.
I remain invisible, lingering in the background,
waiting for my scene to arrive. Ready for a line
in the script. Anxious to be a first choice for once.
No matter how loud I scream that I have yet to tell my story, they will not notice me.
And I know the other dying extras are told the same thing-
write your own script. Make your own production.
Pitch ideas until one sparks, and that becomes your entity.
But it is hard to see that the girl in red
is pushed all the way in the back of the white sea unwillingly.

"What do you want? . . . ",
She burst out-
In throbbing conflict,
I vomited:
"Sory".
She could never learn
How to alter
Printed scripts.