My insecurities. My truth. My story.
Written on August 16, 2020. 5:54pm
In the twisted tongue of lust
In the box of unwanted opinions
Unwanted stereotypes and policing
of a body that was hers before it ever belonged to someone else
And the heated passenger seats of Chevy Impalas
And the twin size beds of college dormitories
Can I tell her story?
Can we discuss her pain?
From wounds of emotional absence
Rejection from parental abandonment
Guilt from mundane curiosity
How about her shame?
Why does she stay?
with the devil who dances at her daughters crevices
the demon who fills her crack pipe
the man that she loves
it matters not when he raises his fist
raises his voice
raises his hands to grope her neck
that’s strangulation to death
as a means to an end of her stay
Her longing for good
In a house that was not a home
in mansions with fountains
in gentrified gated communities
In section 8 housing
where you hear gunshots across the street
Why does she stay
in predominantly white summer camps
just to get a job that’s permanently white washed
anti-black in a pro-white dystopian society
the ghetto should’ve stayed her home
where the comfort of black bonnets
and neck tattoos
and bright hair
and large hoops
and gold teeth
and desert eagles
and 10pc wing plates
was it a fair trade?
Abandoning a community
Breaking generational curses
Fleeing the streets that made her brothers bleed
The first one was 14
The last one happened yesterday
The baby was only 3
So, why does she stay?
I think the better question is
Who helps her leave?