The Fight Between You and You
Prelude
Some people stand in line
Waiting for their turn to be themselves.
They’ll tell you to take a number
And in the same breath,
Allow you to cut in front of them
Because they’re afraid of the consequences of their honesty.
I won’t mortgage my identity to fit where I don’t belong.
This body is mine.
And I will lay all of me bare.
Looking Glass
I saw myself once in a photo.
Rehearsed like the cries of criminals.
Head slightly tilted to compliment frames,
Frames slightly angled to worship illusions,
Illusions applauding my act with seamless lighting.
Get my good side!
That’s my right side.
Nevermind my inside.
Hold still. Don’t forget to suck in my sadness.
Change the pose when my smile cracks,
cover my pain and bring that smile back.
Perfect practice makes perfect practice.
I’ve been conditioned to the condition of performance.
Innocently being who I’m not, for the sake of pictures.
Pitching histories that won’t ever truly reflect the present.
Preferences for what looks good not what feels best.
I resent that.
A photo saw me once, too.
It was someone else’s.
I was in the background unaware of an audience.
Being eveything I am.
Belly laughs that made me cough.
Tears that were afraid to fall, but I let them anyway.
Arrogance after a passionate debate on blackness.
I didn’t have to flip through the catalogue
to find my best face.
They were all me.
The purest version of myself probably hangs on a cracked wall of a noisy home.
Maybe I’m picture 1283 in a random camera roll.
Living in the shadow of someone else’s performance.
Or, if they’re honest, I’m merely an accent in their truest frame.
Interlude
Sometimes the truth tastes dirty between your lips
and you fall into sin for a cleansing.
You find comfort in ommissions.
Chant mantras to unwrite what’s most real.
“Fake it ‘til you make it”, they say.
But being phony is harder work.
And labour ages you.
Wash your mouth out with truth.
Don’t hold you hostage.
ROI?
I’m really good at keeping secrets.
I just didn’t plan on one of them being you.
I can’t keep you.
But you’re already marinated in my skin.
I rub my hands over the parts of me where you’ve tattooed kisses
And they tickle me into a smile…
The same way I do when you look at me
While you’re gridlocked between my thighs.
I love having you there.
I find so much pleasure in sifting through
the curtain of your locs to find your lips.
Wondering how can I be so in and so out of this.
You feel like home. And I think I fit into you.
But you also feel foreign.
Like a puzzle you put together just to break
and start over again.
I try not to get lost in the math of it all.
I bury so much of my consciousness
in the crevices of your neck.
But your grip is a ceremonial reminder that
I am still here.
And that’s a blessing because I want to feel
everything with you.
But it’s cursed too.
You’re so real. And raw.
I couldn’t fake the feelings if I wanted to.
But I doubt them.
And I feel guilty for that kind of irreverence.
Because I know you know we don’t mean nothing.
But I can’t afford to make us mean something more.
Love is expensive.
And I don’t have the right currency.
But if you felt like it was worth it.
I’d find the capital.
And risk it all.
Postlude
My first attempt at spoken word is on the link below. Be kind to my beginnings as I am very uncomfortable here.
Thank you for leaving room for the vulnerability of others. 🖤
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