A female deer tick
vanilla white and
dug in. The skin inflamed red.
Another worry.
I rip my fake nails off, my natural nails break
I slip my rings off
I trace my palms
My hands look so much smaller
Now alone
A p a r t from yours
much seems magnified in June
longest days
memories of significances
records kept and then forgotten until a subtle reminder
so much brought to light
I am yet to become a new and improved version, apparently
though I keep trying
all I can do is try
I fear very little except losing
which means I must win
the best of times and worst, except it’s not the best
it’s a season of making do
and I’m tired
tired of nearly everything but no respite is in sight
meaning I cling to certain thoughts and brevity
books, music, and moments stolen, get me through
I do not care what history says;
you stole my body from me
and so I basked in the glory
of pushing you into a well
and watching you drown.
My world, an opaque cube,
The emptiness, the sound of my creator.
I remember the sensation, of wind in my hair, I shake my head to my disappointment.
My hair falls flat against my back,
I sometimes travel to a world of yellow, enveloped by water my body rests.
I forgot to wash myself.
I spin, make the world into a tight circle,
I try to remember the sound of birds and the sound of knives and forks on plates.
My senses overload, I start to trip,
I hit my head against the floor.
My mind snaps.
I forgot to eat today, my mother said there’s tomorrow.
I choke on a cigarette, that I found under my bed.
I get nothing from it, but it alleviates my pain.
My lungs burn, but it’s a different sensation, yearning not hurting.
My shadow is my best friend, she watches me dance in the evenings.
Everyone else is outside my window, they don’t exist in my mind.
I wish I could remember what I find frightening, so I can scare myself out of here.
I slump against the wall and rub my bruise,
Today is just tomorrow.
The consequences of not escaping,
The constant disembodied sounds are nothing to me.
Like my shadow, they’ve become friends.
“Old white man aims crossbow at black man”
White conservatives line up around
Their precious statues of racism
Preparing to kill protesters for their pride
Backed up completely by the abomination
In the White House
“Pastor reaches for desperate measures, calling slaves a ‘blessing’”
May he rot in hell
Some apologies will never be valid
After what has been said or done
“Black men found hanging, all ruled suicides”
Seems too odd
During such troubled times
Rayshard murdered by cop in Wendy’s parking lot after falling asleep
Dylann rewarded with trip to Burger King after murdering nine black people
Honestly, the years don’t matter, do they?
Because this hasn’t stopped
During the previous 400
Black woman gets shot at home in bed by the cops,
They tell her mother she’s at the hospital
She’s not
She’s dead in her apartment
Where her mother finds her
But somehow the report is blank
Buffalo protester in a hospital with a fractured skull
He can’t move
Marks from zip ties and swelling around the hands
Of a girl who was abused by cops and molested in a cemetery
Confederate flags fly and people refuse to own up to ignorance
So we can be sure that they are, indeed, racists“
Blue lives matter” flags go up outside of brick houses
In fancy subdivisions
So occupants can just be clear with everyone who drives by
That they do, indeed, support police brutality
Local mayor stumbles out of the pub
On our way back to the car
From Black Lives Matter march
Old privileged white man who calls himself a Democrat
Where were you?
I voted today and I need my voice to work
Please let the right people get into the system
Protesters arrested
Protesters arrested
For using their voices
Freedom of speech, an amendment,
The first, in fact,
But apparently that’s the amendment that can be adjusted
That’s the one they have decided is antiquated
That they are going to arrest for
To abuse for
But this isn’t over,
Despite what your social media feeds may lead you to believe,
This isn’t over
And if you have a voice,
For the love of any gods you believe in,
Use it
Inspiration absent,
I lift my heavy pencil
and lower it to the page,
void of text and expectation.
Even the careless workings
of the surly garbage man,
with his cast-off Rite Aid receipts
and used dryer sheets
haphazardly littering the pavement,
usually a steady source of witty lines for my tongue,
scatter only tiny crumbs of stale ideas
on the gravel driveway of my mind.
Dust billows and cobwebs hang,
but try as I might
to shake the sticky darkness loose,
the specks of mindless dirt fall harder,
returning to their former haunts.
They would muddy the water
of my fragile soul,
if only water flowed.
But all that lies within me now
is dry.
