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iced Moroccan tea

In the obscurity

Of time and space

I feel your breath next to mine

Cold yet warming to my soul

 

Like iced Moroccan tea,

Layered with honey

That slips down my throat

And into my core

With hints of mint

Soothing my stomach

From the knots of yesterday

 

From that day on

Always wanting,

Always dreaming

In the palm of your hand

Meeting Myself

Before I met myself,

I met you.

I remember the way your laugh filled my soul

It felt like a balloon being filled with air,

becoming dependent on that laughter,

just as balloons that function depend on air.

Until there is too much pressure

Not enough space for anything else

Causing the balloon to pop.

The loud noise still fills my head and causes a throbbing sensation

Reminding me of what I did wrong

And how I can never make it right.

One day (the/your) (air/laughter) disappeared

And I was left with a body

That didn’t feel like my own

It wasn’t my own.

I didn’t know it.

And it didn’t know me.

A stranger to myself

Without you to guide me

Without you to tell me how to feel

What to do

And when to do it.

Momentary Bliss

As the feverish haste of nervous adults worrying about the storm surrounds me, I feel invisible and my mind wanders. It leads my gaze to the last case of eggs, encased in a gray, dull cardboard that seems eerily similar to a home that is not a real home, just as mine is not truly mine without you in it. And my body is not mine when you are not there to caress it. A man in a big blue coat bumps into me, and I instinctively think its you. Not acknowledging my presence, I discover that it’s just a stranger. His mind occupied while talking to someone presumably reciting a list to him, his eyes focused on the last case of eggs – something we have in common. I am brought back to my surroundings of frantic humans making purchases to stock up and prepare for the blizzard. As time slows down and my sight becomes more blurred, clarity enters my mind next to you and I realize the irony of it all. We cannot prepare for the storm, yet here we are, telling ourselves we can. The storm comes unannounced and we will never be ready. We warn ourselves and others to be prepared, but we are not prepared for the most impacting storm of all. Maybe that’s what makes us human.

Surrounded by the blurriness of the crowd, you sneak into my mind like a bug shimmies through the crevice in a wall to find some light and perhaps some company. Your presence in my mind is quick, but the feeling will last forever. I hear you whisper that it’ll all be okay, and I don’t see how you could possibly know that. A chill from the opening of a door trickles down my spine, giving me goosebumps just like you once did. A child drops a jar of pickles and the memory from then on is spoiled. You escape from my mind down into my gut, causing a pain that is unlike any other, one that I enjoy and deserve.

Bleach

“Racism is dead”

They shout

While erasing the past

And hiding the truth

While ignoring the bodies

That lie dead in the street

Cold, alone, and gone

One more to mention at the end of the year

Just a number to you

But a somebody to someone else

A story to tell

To ensure children of color

Stay out of trouble

“But, we had a black president”

They plea

As they search their souls

For justification to be rid of their guilt

But white will always be superior

While we still bleach our hair

Our food

And our past

of its truth

Rewriting the past

As our future.