I Can Only Hear You From My Left Ear

6
Left:
I’msorry!ILoveyou!Iwantyou. . .
IWasAnAsshole
Come    back    here
ShewasnothingtomeIswear. . .
You are my everything
Don’tleaveme!
You’re       not        leaving             me
I’msorry!ILoveyou!Iwantyou!
I didn’t mean it. I didn’tmean it. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it

 

Right:
*Silence*

 

The silence pains me more than the lies, you spat at me,
you swore were truth.
Almost as if my heart pushes one side of me
to listen, to care, to forgive.
Your mouth moves like rapid fire
as it licks up the side of my heart
burning my lungs.
Exasperated.
How am I to respond appropriately. . .

“Fuck You.”

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 4c 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 because 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

Suitcases 

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.

Mommy,

      You’ll always have me.

Habits

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

Fell in love with a phantom, now all alone.

She let him lie and it’s killing me.

She’s a liar; with a fist of burning coal

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

Conditioning 

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

But
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-
Anything.

Foreign 

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”