1 am

      I can see the bottom of the Hennessy bottle-
Reflecting all the middle school moments of my tomboy years and insecure tears

      I can see the bottom of the Hennessy bottle-

Screaming the “You’re not black enough”s and the “You’re too white”s

         I can see the bottom of the Hennessy bottle-

Clear as a crystal ball clouding my judgment with pictures of mommies of daddies little black girls are told they can’t have

       I can see the bottom of the Hennessy bottle-

But I can’t feel my face, I can’t feel my natural 4a type black hair growing, I can’t feel my country achy breaky heart pounding, I can’t feel my brown face perpetually “bitch faced” because I’m constantly watching over my shoulder Bc my neighborhood is being gentrified and pushing drug dealers and fighters onto my street

       I can see the bottom of the Hennessy bottle with eyes closed and my tweety birds singing around my head

        The distant party sounds of Reggae and Rihanna pulse through my alcoholic soaked veins, I can see the bottom of the Hennessy bottle.

Go Fish

im really not good at card games.

in my hand, I hold a pair of hearts

close to my chest, I try to hold on

but the game’s too fast and I always finish last

but magicians have a way with their hands

   they mix and mush, disappear and return

but never reveal their secrets 

cards lay crumpled in my fists

draining their color

“Do you have a two of hearts”

“….no. Go fish”

“Shuffle the deck, there’s more fish in the sea.”

im really not good at card games 


I tripped on suitcases    

        On my way in

On hands and feet

    Crawling backwards to the open door

Staring at the void in the wall

      Echoing, echoing, echoing.

The suitcases rise

      While shackles break free

Wind whooshing past and over

      My infantile figure.

Hands meant for holding

      Eyes meant for dreams

Fall onto the dust bunnies domain

      Grasping for imaginary happiness

Weeping, weeping, weeping

      Directly aside me.


      You’ll always have me.


He’s a liar; but she should’ve known
Dimples of perfection would pierce her soul

Fell in love with a phantom was all alone.

       She let him lie and it’s killing me.

She’s a liar; 

Wished for princes and twilight balcony conversations

Blinded by beauty and smooth talking

I’m a liar; but he already knew

Plotted an evening before it was set in stone.

Slithering through fresh cut green grass with no intention to stay
Bad habits die slow 


There were times when my conditioning shouted at my feminism for growing against the grain Because it’s frowned upon 

There were times when my conditioning yearned to sugarcoat every micro-aggression shadily thrown my way
There are times when I could go shooting for no reason at all Because gun control is no longer in our hands
I could go crazy

I could go off

I could burn this motha down

There were times when my conditioning allowed me to be another nigger 

Waiting to play the fiddle

Or tap dance for whatever I was told I could have
This time my conditioning does not control-


You don’t know what it feels like to not have a language

For your own kind

When it’s appropriated as a fad

To not have an understanding for your sacred language
To not have a place to call home within the borders of the imaginary lines of a country who lenses are fixated on the progression of the white race
You don’t know what it feels to be “Foreign”

Hands Up

There is a vacancy to this room
An absence of silence lingers on 

The end of bed frames

A crack screaming in the chip of the paint on the walls
I wonder if this is how mothers feel

When their sons are shot down

And the bedroom reeks of remnants of a lost soul
I throw my hands up in the air

In a sigh of relief

While young men fall to their knees

Onto bloody concrete 
I wonder if a black man is shot down in the street and a white cop sees

Do he make a sound?