You’ve Been On My Mind

You’ve been on my mind
One word
One song
Your name
My skin still remembers the imprint of your fingertips
The heat of your lips
I still remember your smile
And that it was only for me
These days I’m drowning my sorrows
But I can’t drown the sin of you
These days I’m craving pain and heartache
But no one hurts me like you
You’ve been on my mind
But you’ve got whiskey in your lungs
And a devil in your bed
You’ve got faded memories of me
Broken promises
And empty hearted smiles
You’ve got a house full of relics
And plenty of reasons to forget
But please don’t forget me
I’d be better off dead

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No One Knows Me

No one knows me like the razor blade
Like blood stains on sleeves
Like a trail of scars on brown skin hidden by hoodies in July
Or worn proudly like faded medals from wartime
No one knows me like ink stains on my fingertips
Like longing
Like regret
No one know knows me like numbness where there should be pain
And pain where there should be life

How To Befriend a Brown Girl: Part 1

(working title)

On Hair:
  1. Don’t ask to touch my hair as you’re touching my hair.
  2. Don’t touch my hair.
  3. Don’t ask to touch my hair.
  4. Don’t ask if my hair is real.
  5. Don’t ask how I get my hair to look so pretty.
  6. Don’t ask what I’m mixed with because my hair is so pretty.
  7. Don’t tell me you wish you could have hair like mine.
  8. Don’t.
Your fingers in my hair without my consent or expressed permission
Is like a statement that black bodies are akin to amusement parks
That America’s history of disregarding black bodies is lost on you and will continue to be so
Chains. Whips. Water hoses. Dogs. Eurocentric ideas of beauty and now your fingers in my damn hair.
Our bodies have never been ours.
They have only been whatever you choose to make of them.
They have never merited kindness and care.
A stranger putting their hands on you without your consent
Is assault
Except when it comes to black hair and black bodies
I’m only beautiful when you’re around to see it
I’m only pretty when you’re around to tell me
Even my love for myself and my blackness is offensive to you
I can only love myself in ways that you approve.
In secret and in whispers
Because black girls are too rowdy
We’re too angry
We’re a handful
We’re too much
Too much
And not enough
I am not enough for you to view my body as my sanctuary
My hair as my glory
Not enough to prevent you from violating sacred ground
To claim for your amusement.
I am too much
And not enough
Not enough to keep your fingers out of my damn hair.