My hair is clipped 2 inches short
I make peace with the texture I can’t change or name
My skin makes its own freckles at night Ready by day
Leaving me pondering when I last saw the sun
Blame and I have a detrimental contract My self-awareness leads me by the hand, into rooms where it fights all my lawsuits
I watch it battle every mind-street idler and slacker
My disapproval remains firmly wrapped around my throat
My blood coagulated, my limbs tense
The mangoes are my most trusted source of serotonin
Then how come there are days I don’t eat any at all?
I am sick of the comfort of misery
I am most sick of feeling nothing at all
The contradiction. The conflict
The confusion
The passing time. The passing da(y)ze
The passing age
If I could glimpse my life in 40 years, it wouldn’t make me happy
If I was happy, then I wouldn’t be me
If it were mine
I wouldn’t want it
Where will you make your home?
Running from the shame of your brain and the impossibility of your dreams?
Or in the safety of loss. The safety of your under-achievements
Would you rather remain stuck, or fall forever?
My plants grow lusciously green and blossom into trees
Tethered to my body, their roots overlap
If I ended this on three-line stanza instead of four
Would you be okay with that?
