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Your fingertips planted trees on me.
You left a forrest
full of life.
But with no rain
there was no healthy leafs.
So the forrest crumbled.
And I cut the tress down
for I did not wish
to have a memory of you
on my body.
Yet, roots of the forrest
remained deep beneath my skin.
And I will now forever,
if I wish or not,
have memories of your fingertips.
you kissed the crevices of my body like I was something holy
no one's ever worshiped my scars like that
but you knelt down to them like they were sacred
I wanted to drown all of my skin in you
what has happened to me?
you are there with me in every mirror
scars that aren't mine cut into my skin
touching where it hurts the most

you place your hand against my face
I cry, your tears birth new pain
I long to free you from this world
of fire and shattered dreams

you call out to me
I speak your name and there you are
no longer lonely in the darkness
I hold out my hand, open my heart
you say, please don't leave
I say, come to me
By Arcassin Burnham

My queens , My queens , the only thing that means so
much to me is how much you wear you skin so
So lovely ,lovely , like black diamonds standing in the
rough , you could have short hair ,I'd still want you.
Don't try to be something your not, we all know how this goes,
You just want to impress your ghetto friends.
Two eyes , three eyes, I could see love that's pouring out of
you, you're divine, babe I need you now.

Melanin Queen,
Queen , Queen.
Melanin Queen,

Spend all day waiting.
my lover's return
home from the maelstrom.

They open the door.
"Hi. How are you?"
Drop their backpack.

**** and ****, then
eat dinner, then
watch their shows,
sleep, ready for the morning rising.

Where am I, here in this?
Petrified stone.
They tell me I'm pretty, though.
I must be marble.

Where am I, here in this?
Deified skin.
Long for the warmth of a touch.
Get in the shower.

There is water in me.
It's heating me up.
I long for the warmth of your touch.
But, I give my love to vapor.

Enjoying my chains,
happy enough
to be alive, yet
KM Hanslik Nov 11
There are flowers springing from my bones
in places they were never planted
fracture my skull and call it apathy
I say pain is a better road than dying
alone without a will to tell;
can't you see the way my vision is blurred,
squinted too long at the sun now I think I've done damage
burned holes in my corneas before the age of 21, but those are just
surface things, right?
the road feels a lot longer when the cold air hits all my soft spots, like my neck so I cover it up
pooling all my efforts into growing thicker blood that will keep my skin warm
;keep kissing bruises on my arms, thinking that love will heal each new halfhearted attempt at self-sabotage
or manage the leftover evidence;
did somebody forget their brakelights on?
I'm trying to figure out how to get these needles out of my head
rocket science, learning to reverse detonate what might be left
in my system
system check, leaving sticky residue
behind me in my heavy concave tracks
softly trailing back
gotta learn to do it right the first time before I backtrack
my ears ringing like a sound clap;
bringing up old war wounds like we've lost gives us some sense of entitlement
things we don't want to lack,
leave the last stack
where I can mull over the aftermath
digging graves for those who are still alive,
burn my skin tonight
burn it right off my bones so I'll know I'm alive
still kicking like the second round
the afterthought that realizes what went down the first time
don't let me out of the house tonight,
*** knows what I might find.
i have these plastics for the skin
and faces for those that lost their own in unkempt households
for those that break apart
that try to hold on for dear life to spirit
as they lose the traction between the spikes
of life untwined
of life with a rewind button
ready to be sutured up again  
by a thunderous regret
and by the peace of the rains of the hills
a life without challenge is not a life at all, i've seen.
You’re the eighth color of the rainbow
Most beautiful, unique!
Never seen, yet never forgotten.
Breon Nov 7
It seems so innocuous the first few times,
An innocence and an unknowing. It's fine.
"But, I mean, where is your FAMILY from?"
Sure. And I'll explain: that is complicated.

My patience wears out pretty fast nowadays
So I try to bite back all the bitterness
When faced with the expectant empathy
A vivisectionist might spare the dead.
So I dissect myself with a practiced ease:

My mother came from Guyana, a bounty land
She fled so long ago. I never ask her why.
My father wasn't much of one. We don't talk.
Me? I'm from the most hated place on this Earth:
New Jersey. They always seem to expect that.

A simple answer for a simple question,
And I know they only asked because they meant
"How come you don't look like me, so tall and dark?"
And I'd smile if they were honest about it.
The title refers to one way I've heard my skin described. Maybe it's supposed to be like how pessimism and optimism can synthesize to arrive at realism, if realism was a skin color.
Becca Nov 7
lukewarm freckles berade my skin
like soldiers to the sea
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