And so we transition
Back to oral histories
Until our fingers forget symbols.
We will listen
And never mind the others
And their stories;
We will close ourselves in chambers that echo into soundbites.
Taps of repetition
On your frontal cortex
Until the pains are those you feel comfortable managing.
Do you hear the story
In your hand?
Truth is in an algorithm
And a skip.
Like the color of your voice the first time it danced my name.
Strung on time and tales
Lost in a far off place.
Not far from my mother’s
Torn apart and put together again.
Patches in her sleeve taught me
there was nothing left to cope.
A rage of vibrations cast a thunderous applause
For the damaged skin you left me in
When you left me in the dark.
I left chocolate ice cream stains beneath your chin.
I wanted to indulge in your young soul for a moment more than socially appropriate.
A precious memory to be sewn into my long term and yours for the time being.
Over time you have retreated; waning your womanly characteristics into the child your mother must have known.
In a bittersweet, didactic daydream, I connect with your mother. I washed your hands and cleaned your face with the napkin.
At this moment I know I have exactly four minutes to collect.
To learn the fast facts of your history, ancestory, and memories, before the reset button functions without fail.
One moment to use the tongue your mother bestowed because you forgot the one handed to you in school. Tell me of the mallet that whipped a whisper.
Lend me one moment to tell me of the time you left your future husband on his knees for weeks, begging for your hand to please.
And let me steal a moment to remember when you found religion at the bottom of a sack of carrot seeds; hands blistered by the weeds and threw care to the breeze.
Lend me a moment more to collect these memories so that I may be a record for the family of the grandmother who lived in the moment
Because that’s all that ever existed.
Quietly you will quake in your bed of things left unsaid. You will burn by the fire of your tongue and leave stains of sweat inset in my head. More times alive than you were dead. But we choose to remember dead instead.
Days like these
We worship it,
Not for its perfection,
But for all the moments we wish we could have taken back.
For all the words we should have inhaled instead of spewed.
Days like these
We sit on our thrones alone
Because power comes at a mighty lonely price.
We practice our goodness but never quite get to genuine.
It’s days like these that remind us where we are.
Who has come before us
And how we will pave the way for the others.
Days that are long,
But worth every hustling minute.
We will remember the glory of these days
Not for its perfection
But for its purity.
Build a legacy.
For the women who created this body deserve recognition
The women who rendered this mind deserve rights.
They created art. They created a dream.
I saw you crying once.
Outside of the bedroom late at night.
We had washed up after a party and dragged in the same old, bitter fight.
Who was I to you? Why couldn’t you show?
So here we are:
You on the livingroom floor.
Me, peering through a crack in the bedroom I wished wasn’t ours. A hallway of mirrors fall between us and we cannot reach each other through our own reflection.
We would only see ourselves.
You belittle me with such delightful song.
I missed a spot
I laughed a lot
Judged upon the life I made
Blamed for all the steps I take
How dare I live a happy way
He brushes his hair with the rough palm of his hand as he surveys the room over the brim of his glasses.
With one raise of an eyebrow, he unbuckles his jaw and lightly licks his bottom lip.
Surveillance is his key to survival. We are all pawns to his purpose — and believe me, he has control.
His survival instincts are different than yours or mine.
He can never be sure who is a threat. He doesnt know you yet,
but he will.
He subjects himself to submission just to facilitate the flow. Unwinds the bait and reels in your ego. Keep your enemies close.
Keep them wanting more.
Roots thick as blood
Tied to the vows of the womb we shared
A woman’s bond coiled in cold intentions.
Suffocate a moon-time flow of a new direction.
Heartbeat in the background Tells us of the time we do not have.
Regressed by a memory.
Drowned by a dream.
Is my psyche playing tricks on me?
Blood and memory –
The foundation of the altercation.
You. My legacy’s contention.