Dear Love,


I guess
I am assuming the role I was made to fill.

That of doormat.
That of reservoir.
That of receptacle.

Of baker and lover and mother
of insides
and viscera
and teardrops
of undergird
of receptionist
of oracle.

I can’t
I can’t hope that you recognize the position I fill.

That would be asking too much.

And I don’t want to ask too much of you.

I know how hard you work.
I know that by the time you’re nine your body is a menace

I know that I can’t unload my burdens onto you.
You’ve had a long day–
you have–

I know you have, I’m not trying to take that away from you.
I’m glad you’re alive tonight.

You don’t think I know?
I feel it.

I mean, I don’t know what it means to inhabit a black man’s body,
but I completely and wholly empathize.

You’ve got to know that.

But I’m saying
my trash can body is filled up.

No one takes it out.
No one empties it.
People just walk on by it.

Including you.




For Reference:

How to Not Die: Some Survival Tips for Black Women Who Are Asked to Do Too Much

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