i find more comfort in streetlights than the cold hearth of home.
will there ever be a day when my words mean enough for you to consider that maybe (just maybe),
i needed something more than your words, skin, being
to see a purpose in my words, skin, be-ing. because before i bought into your broken narrative of my perfection, i accepted my futility, but you, in your attempt to fix nature,
tore apart the remedy of oblivion that i have fed myself for years before
does it take stained bathroom tiles
to convince you
that it’s not
the air that you dispel from your lips should start meaning something.
nature nurtured me into nothingness,
but that doesn’t mean you should too.
woman graced you with breath, so
why are you afraid of the feminine from which you were created?
gold does not exist
to complement your futile mind.
a black man was shot for the color of his skin–
his god’s given gown that once promised his soul’s salvation
i will always remember
the year i stopped trying
to breathe in water
and you stopped trying
to swim on land
broken dead cement and grey
petals are romantic because you
can’t help but wonder
what they once
the setting sun will rise
the dream of the illusionist
dictated that i hold you higher up– higher than
your summer of ’17 when you were a lost soul
searching for something that was worth
settling down for