What you are.
Because they know you.
You are.
unaffected; affected,
sedate; excitable,
warm; ferocious,
cheerful; cheerless,
calm; hot,
Using words that fit.
Them.
They all love you.
There are people who will tell you to conform, smile, act and speak a certain way.
You want to fit in, have friends and not ruffle the chicken’s feathers.
Well I say Fuck the chicken and his organized white, christian, heterosexual feathers.
I want to be hated by these chickens who stand with the stick of correctness up their ass, waiting to correct the next.
Who are you to tell me how to be?
You are the political correctness chicken shit police who cowardly troll around on Facebook and Twitter.
If we were ever face to face, I would slap you and show you how I won an MMA Title.
I wouldn’t argue because arguing is reserved for those who aren’t served for dinner.
It is a privilege to get a few words from me and you have enough privilege to fill your life and so much more.
I’ve struggled, I’ve cried, I’ve seen the barrel of a gun and thought it was the end. The bottom. The rock bottom. When I couldn’t fall any more.
The barrel gave me the freedom to never give breathe to the chickens of the world again.
You almost destroyed me by suppressing my being
And now I stand ready and willing to just be.
I may not give breathe to you again but I hope you may never endure the empty promises of the loaded gun.
He said I had a perfect pussy.
At almost half past two in the morning, in his fancy black car
— an Audi, or a Lexus, I can’t remember, I don’t care —
he slid his hands down the front of my jeans
and sighed like he’d seen God,
and he said
in that hazy hideous Quincy-boy sludge
that my pussy was perfect.
I think back to this moment constantly.
If it were a book, the pages would be falling out.
If it were a DVD, the disc would skip,
and right at the best part, too,
when he purrs “pussy”.
I thought of it when he posted a selfie video to Instagram for the “ten pushup challenge”
and I wished I was laying below him as he pushed himself off the floor,
one,
two,
three.
He told me he thinks about it, too,
that in his dreams I’m always riding shotgun.
I thought about it buying a little red sundress
when it was still winter, those late-season March days
when we thought this would be over by April.
I thought of it so hard it secreted from every pore,
slickness and sickness,
my whole body alive from that one time Billy said I had a perfect pussy.
Four months ago I couldn’t do one pushup.
Now I can do fifteen in one go.
I won’t post that to Instagram.
I tweet about how I’m doing them, a set of ten every time working from home sets me off,
just to blow off steam.
Billy liked that.
Billy likes my bikini photos.
Billy had me growing basil that I pounded into pesto,
Billy won’t come for me,
Billy wants me to fall into his lap.
A set of ten for every time he pisses me off.
There are people who will tell you that
you must care for the drunk driver who
was unaware that her decision ended the life of the mom whose
teenage son’s world is about to change when he
wakes up from the sedative given to fix his fractured wrist
he must heal his heart and body without her
the mom who would fill the ziploc with ice and carefully wrap it in a kitchen towel
who would wipe his tears and wrap her arms around his big man body as he cries
in the one bed in the flat they share with his school papers strewn on the floor
There are people who will tell you that
you must forgive
forgive those who slash open your heart with the betrayal
of the only promise that really mattered
they tell you forgiveness is for you not the one
who undermined your reason for living
I want to be hated by those people who want to silence the rage
that falls from my pen
the depth of anger that erupts through my scalp
at the man who harmed the child we promised to protect
that man who walked through his life with
an earnest face and a vile secret
there are people who will tell you that
that life with three squares and no freedom is enough
enough to atone
is there atonement for the hate?
5 Responses
There are people who will tell you.
What you are.
Because they know you.
You are.
unaffected; affected,
sedate; excitable,
warm; ferocious,
cheerful; cheerless,
calm; hot,
Using words that fit.
Them.
They all love you.
I want to be hated by.
Anyone but myself.
There are people who will tell you to conform, smile, act and speak a certain way.
You want to fit in, have friends and not ruffle the chicken’s feathers.
Well I say Fuck the chicken and his organized white, christian, heterosexual feathers.
I want to be hated by these chickens who stand with the stick of correctness up their ass, waiting to correct the next.
Who are you to tell me how to be?
You are the political correctness chicken shit police who cowardly troll around on Facebook and Twitter.
If we were ever face to face, I would slap you and show you how I won an MMA Title.
I wouldn’t argue because arguing is reserved for those who aren’t served for dinner.
It is a privilege to get a few words from me and you have enough privilege to fill your life and so much more.
I’ve struggled, I’ve cried, I’ve seen the barrel of a gun and thought it was the end. The bottom. The rock bottom. When I couldn’t fall any more.
The barrel gave me the freedom to never give breathe to the chickens of the world again.
You almost destroyed me by suppressing my being
And now I stand ready and willing to just be.
I may not give breathe to you again but I hope you may never endure the empty promises of the loaded gun.
There are people who will tell you that
me and my niggas
could not attend the wedding feast
with our tall t-shirts
dreadlocks
and timberland boots
That Jesus
did not turn water
into hennessy
That Biggie Smalls
was not the illest.
I want to be hated by those
who give more fucks
about policing my Blackness
than policing their bais
Loathed by those
who censor potty mouths
but have shitty politics
Despised by those
try to keep me out
of the dopest party.
He said I had a perfect pussy.
At almost half past two in the morning, in his fancy black car
— an Audi, or a Lexus, I can’t remember, I don’t care —
he slid his hands down the front of my jeans
and sighed like he’d seen God,
and he said
in that hazy hideous Quincy-boy sludge
that my pussy was perfect.
I think back to this moment constantly.
If it were a book, the pages would be falling out.
If it were a DVD, the disc would skip,
and right at the best part, too,
when he purrs “pussy”.
I thought of it when he posted a selfie video to Instagram for the “ten pushup challenge”
and I wished I was laying below him as he pushed himself off the floor,
one,
two,
three.
He told me he thinks about it, too,
that in his dreams I’m always riding shotgun.
I thought about it buying a little red sundress
when it was still winter, those late-season March days
when we thought this would be over by April.
I thought of it so hard it secreted from every pore,
slickness and sickness,
my whole body alive from that one time Billy said I had a perfect pussy.
Four months ago I couldn’t do one pushup.
Now I can do fifteen in one go.
I won’t post that to Instagram.
I tweet about how I’m doing them, a set of ten every time working from home sets me off,
just to blow off steam.
Billy liked that.
Billy likes my bikini photos.
Billy had me growing basil that I pounded into pesto,
Billy won’t come for me,
Billy wants me to fall into his lap.
A set of ten for every time he pisses me off.
There are people who will tell you that
you must care for the drunk driver who
was unaware that her decision ended the life of the mom whose
teenage son’s world is about to change when he
wakes up from the sedative given to fix his fractured wrist
he must heal his heart and body without her
the mom who would fill the ziploc with ice and carefully wrap it in a kitchen towel
who would wipe his tears and wrap her arms around his big man body as he cries
in the one bed in the flat they share with his school papers strewn on the floor
There are people who will tell you that
you must forgive
forgive those who slash open your heart with the betrayal
of the only promise that really mattered
they tell you forgiveness is for you not the one
who undermined your reason for living
I want to be hated by those people who want to silence the rage
that falls from my pen
the depth of anger that erupts through my scalp
at the man who harmed the child we promised to protect
that man who walked through his life with
an earnest face and a vile secret
there are people who will tell you that
that life with three squares and no freedom is enough
enough to atone
is there atonement for the hate?