“Not About” Swaying.

My tears stupid?
The swaying of her body,
back and forth,
to the rhythm of his fall
his peril


My hurt

How trepidatiously she held
righteousness’s hand that day.

You don’t
get to have a say bout what feels real
My heart’s
valves are the only things
you can’t quantify and extrapolate data from Because you wanna look at vandalism accessorized by
a state-sanctioned nihilism use that as an excuse to vilify waking and moving people

My tears stupid? Not that. Not
again. You don’t get to do that
again To use My vulnerability as an excuse to commit murder.
My openness in this field of blood
We believe despite what history has shown us.

We pray
in spite of
being strong-armed into tailor-made pipelines That just not good enough for you?
You want more?

reck-less. The way in which
you demand
starched ironed shirts from us
The way in which you demand that we
fold our arms and legs into ourselves as we walk.

How you talk
some of us into believing that we somehow biologically unsuited for love.
because you kick us outta class.
’cause we loud (read: restless)
’cause our clothes (read: expression)
’cause we shoot (read: escape)
’cause we shoot (read: escape)
’cause anything but capable of contradiction we an
unfinished drawing
we an abandoned prototype
we try
too hard. some of us try
too hard to shape our bodies into custom-fitted buoys and large-breasted caterers
still some of us,
not wearing those starched shirts, are forced into those pipelines, so painstakingly created by those that would have us be a whisper of a scent on this Western skin
‘Cause we lawless.
‘Cause we sideshow.
‘Cause we express our boredom too ostentatiously in that room,
tightened by all those damn desks
Can’t breathe with all those desks.
Instead of
throwing a lifeline out
to those young men that be choking on the hot air in that room
You tell us,
with the conviction and angst of a swelling, Southern mob
the rhythm of our swaying bodies is not held up by
any applicable data.


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