Angry Blk Girl
ANGRY BLK GIRL RESERVES RIGHT TO BE ANGRY.
ANGRY BLK GIRL RESERVES RIGHT TO SAY NGGA ANGRY BLK GIRL RESERVES RIGHT TO SAY BTCH. ANGRY BLK GIRLS RESERVES RIGHT TO CALL HER BTCHS NGGAS. angry blk grl writes a book. angry blk girl must validate authority. angry blk girl lives in mirror. angry blk girl is BLK GIRL authority. ANGRY BLK GIRL IS TOO LOUD but small small small ANGRY BLK GIRL is perpetual apology ANGRY BLK GIRL is tired of being sorry angry blk girl is not sorry is angry blk girl prefers anger than SMILE SMILE smile thinks smiles are standard lies is not a liar. ANGRY BLK GIRL LOVES ALL PEOPLE. BROWN PEOPLE. PURPLE PEOPLE. GREEN PEOPLE. ANGEL PEOPLE. WHITE PEOPLE. blk girl does not understand whiteness. BLK girl is afraid of whiteness. ANGRY BLK GIRL LEARNED whiteness THE WAY THE FIRST BORN ALWAYS DIES DURING PLAGUE. Angry blk girl is baby blk girl until death under the foot of whiteness. IS NOT BABY BLK GIRL. IS BIG GROWN ANGRY BLK GIRL. Angry blk girl deserves to be just as angry as angry white girl. does not share the same anger white girl owns. white girl wants blk girl to fight in WHITE GIRL army but tells angry black girl “not for you today but tomorrow maybe tomorrow” ANGRY BLK GIRL CANNOT SAVE HER ANGER FOR tomorrow,
don’t tell me it’s not that serious. don’t you dare tell me to quiet down/its not that serious.
BLK GIRL BELONGS TO NO LAND. BLK GIRL IS CONSTANTLY IN TRANSPORT. BLK GIRL MOURNS THE DISTANCE. BLK GIRL IS THE DISTANCE. BLK GIRL IS BOTTOM OF THE ATLANTIC. BLK GIRL LIES STILL BENEATH CITY COURT HOUSE. IS STUCK STILL. IS STUCK STILL. IS BARELY FOUR GENERATIONS OF LOSS. IS ALWAYS LOST.
“Did you love him?”
The therapist asks.
I pause in my breath, make it short and listen to what the circulation is telling me. “Yes,” I say, “I think I did.” And how could I not? He was the stuff of the big boy universe, a monument of what it meant to
have a big brother. He was annoying, and picked on me, but made me meals and helped me learn how
to recognize unfamiliar humor and when to laugh. We laughed some afternoons, the house thick with
summer sweat, our joy deep portals, the television a frigid murmur in the rooms. All day, we’d disobey
the rules and be glittered about it, waiting for our grandmother to come home and dial through the
“So, you loved him.” She says, and sure, yes, what does it really take to admit it, the moon is full tonight, anyway.
Sure, I loved him, because I was made to. But things got weird and the body holds a lot of what does not belong to it. I carry him in ways I’d wish away, but here we are.
“Most women cannot say the person by name or even a pronoun. You take this on well.”
That’s what you all call it. Is there ever a living, perforated thing that can escape a bleed? I’m not dealing, I’m not dealing with it, I’m not accepting it as mine but I talk about it, shoot at it, take
all the right medication. Is that enough? Sometimes. Today.
There is no
Resolution to missing you.
Each day travels in
and out of itself
My bold name falling
in and out of
Any stranger’s mouth.
These days I
look perfection in the face
with each lie. I was
Beautiful once. I was a bloom for time’s eye.
I was an allergen,
a schism of breath’s sake.
I loom through these sordid yellow rooms, teething with
deep misuse, your name starving me out. Absence is the heart’s dying muse.