Cleaning House is Work.

Cleaning House is Work. 13.11.04

I see now what I hadn’t before.

I understand, in parts, the movings that made roads-both dirt filled and divine.

I hear his screaming at his mother, holding weight, the size of crack pipes

There was a close rage-

Things going up walls inside me and grabbing what was kept safe

His screaming no longer caramel sweet, holding an understanding of his experience- palpable

Strong in stance,

And determined to make endings of what kept us bound.


We in the process of taking trauma see self. Only because it is all we know.


He cursed what she was enough for the both of them.

Intent- release anger.

Result- the former and more.


This is interaction sometimes for blk children.

It do mean that at times we come to be siblings or partner like.

Poverty means all of that.

It means we experience the trauma of our circumstance on this level

Something that could be called “realer”.

Thank you racism for giving us realness.


I understand the thousand hurt. I know it more now than then.

At first my stomach didn’t hurt.

Didn’t burn trying to reach itself

There weren’t nightmares or voices foretelling eternities of hopelessness.

Acid wasn’t something accompanying meals


Depression is a dark thing

Holds our loneliness with ill intent

Creates worlds where we have silence to affirm us.


Being Black in this world- womyn, queer and dreamer. . .

This can make us sad

Dangerous lies spin about

But mama, that is just material, and I understand better now.


Your words came to me in the midst of come downs.


Prayer and determination. We is children.    

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