there is nights past
where i remade myself in sinister drag
i painted my face from boredom and loneliness
and told myself bout how no one pretty much cares for nigger sighs and stories bout faggots crying and i convinced myself that it would be worth it to litter.
and i went out, like a mess
trampling flowers all the way through my garden, and dropping feathers
clanged through my gate
and sat at a bar, proclaiming:
“i am a Black man
who likes dick in his ass.
i want my damn respect.”
speaking in a slur as demeaning as it intentional.
dressed as a pig.
and i know what loneliness, bad memories, and an itch can do at closing
and how comfortable hims who hum low could seem
there are glimmers-
in those bags, as bright as my eyes
and are more dangerous.
they will blind more than you thought
or meant to.
to the point where there is no high
high enough to reach happy
no voice that can sing sweet.
just things whispering from behind doors
begging you to wear collars, and be blindfolded.
to the point where understanding love makes no sense
because this world makes no sense.
its just clouds.
its just choking.
and i want to breathe.
ive kind started to like it
so i am not going to let tonight be like one of those before.
im going to write a poem.