little African girl, you belong with the sun
little African girl you grow with the soil, the trees, the earth.
Your melanin glows whenever light shines upon it.
Your beauty aligns with the galaxy that surrounds it.
When you see the way your hair defies gravity, the way it curls and is a beautiful bundle a top of your head, what do you think?
I hope you don't think of perming it so it could be completely straight, so it could lose it's fun, because it should stun anyone who walks by it
You should never have to think that your hair is not beautiful with it's tight curls because I 4c you glowing radiantly as your hair surrounds you, I see you loving yourself every way imaginable to man, I see a girl who was taught that your hair is too hard to handle, I see a girl who wished she had straight hair so she would look pretty all the time
I see a fighter who fought to stop the hurt she brings to herself.
Little African girl you are beautiful the way you are.
From where you came from your, beauty stuns them all.

Its all gone wrong
major tom
Boomers singing
never gonna give you up
Baby
Just another day tucked in bed
Paradise can wait
Mummas teaching a course in free thinking
she won't be in till after ten
Pappas off perming mullets
all weekend
he's a successful business man

Questionable fashion and a lack of common sense
Less said about this decade the better

I wear my friends like a diadem
yours like a solar system
though somehow, they break the universal law
something glitched in the G
denatures it to P

In a tower defense game, you’d be
the princess, and i the net
of arrows, axes, lasers hotter than life
itself. Did you know my
lover designs lasers?

The sizzles in my neck are all the
more obvious for it. I
got my paper back today. At the top was
a name with my ego
cut to ribbons, beside.

I see someone and know they’re your friend
(Don’t have Sister’s condition
but my heart unknits itself anyway.) We
decay together each
time we improve ourselves.

They speak a name and it’s now a sheath
through which I see the point of
a nose, teeth change color, stacks of blood from your
sharp tear ducts. It’s fishnets
which look like chainmail. It’s

a lot of work perming my hair for
weeks at a time—sowing discourse
like a full-time job. Chaining myself to an
anonymous statue
is a lot of work. When

I wrapped my head like the foam around
a pear, my upper lip short-
ened to reveal my front teeth (the chip polished
porcelain,) it was a
lot of work. Breath in, breathe

out. She’s always a woman to me.
Tuberculosis, asthma,
paxlovid. You cannot sleep, there may be
princesses around. I
ought to smash this circlet.