|
a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
|
|
a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
|
A white girl told me I don’t know Emily -- Not with my soul throng in feathers, filled with song -- I have my handprint on the cornice in the ground, my carriage trotting towards eternity, His pallid fingers on my gown When her Fly melts in my mouth -- While I dance in purple, victor’s nectar dipped in sweet And I know I, with my thin black eye(s) spent dry my wild nights, ‘till the silence came of a thousand funerals drumming in my brain -- A white girl told me I don’t know Sylvia and I know she knows nothing of tulips sizzling by my hospital bed of resurrection of nine lives down to three Esther’s screams singed with electricity anesthesia-free, to be freed from the jar unshattered, unseen Clawing at my hair, my face, my flat nose bridge Cry as I let me slip and leave me all to white White like a cut, white like a corpse reborn in festering flesh Losing my virginity to coffin flies when Lady Lazarus rips my skin Hell I try dying with artistic flair, and the broken arrow, returns and drives itself into me. A white girl told me I don’t know poetry. A white girl told me I don’t know life. She told it like she knows my life. But I know they are also mine. Comments are closed.
|
Categories
All
* = Editors' Choice work
Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
September 2023
|