Punches

Someone asked me today why I am so angry

So I punched them in the nose.

They screeched in anger, clutching their bruised nostrils

Bewildered, they ask,

“The FUCK was that for?!”

I shrug, and go about my day.

Later, I offer them a donut and a coffee

Which they accept.

“So we’re good, right?” They glare at me

And turn their back to me.

“Why are you so angry?”

“You fucking kidding me?” they ask,

Eyes wide with indignation.

I shrug, and go back to work.

I borrowed their sweatshirt.

I was cold, and theyweren’t using it.

“Is that my sweatshirt?”

I nod, happy that they noticed my appreciation for their thing.

Even though I am much bigger than them,

I make it fit.

I made it my own.

“How,” they ask. “Did you manage to fit into it?”

“I had to rip it in some places,” I tell them, excited about my new creation.

“Like your hoop earrings and your cornrows, I’m just borrowing it.

I watch as their eyes and nostrils widen

“WHAT THE FUCK IS-”

They start, but I hold up a hand.

“Why are you so angry?”

Their anger seems to grow exponentially.

They leave me,

Trying to understand what I did.

Certainly it can’t be because of this morning?

Still baffled by the person’s hostility

I take to the timeline.

I tell them about how nasty the person was to me

I explain the situation, trying to understand;

“I mean, you punched them in the nose,”

Said one user.

“How you gon punch somebody then ask y dey mad,”

Asked another.

Some attempted to explain

The context of being punched in the face,

And how for a long time,

It was seen as an act of violence

One that could escalate.

Not like saying the N-word

Or believing that all black women are ugly

Or angry.

When I insist that I don’t understand,

They try a different approach.
“What if someone punched you in the nose?

Stole you sweatshirt?

Can you see where that may be a problem?”

As a black femme

I have to take punches every day,

In silence.

I’ve learn to take the hits,

But I can’t quite quell the angry.

Because no sooner have I recovered from the last punch to the nose

That I take a hit to the ribs.

And before I can straighten myself out from that,

I get swiped at the ankles.

Every day, I have to see

Other’s praised for things that only earn my mockery.

Things about my style of dress,

My voice,

The things I love,

Only to have someone snatch it

From my hands,

And claim it as their own.

My personality whitewashed

Made more palatable for the mass.

Erasing me from my own creation for their personal gain.

I’m nothing but a mass of emotional

Mental,

Sometimes physical bruises.

And yet, I should be happy.

Happy that I am even acknowledged.

Others just called me names

Bitch, Cunt, Violent Whore

But none of them understood;

They were just being divisive.

I get that they are upset

I really do.

However,

Every day, I deal with punches.

On a regular bases,

I have piece of my culture

Plastered all over the mainstream,

Without a face like mine profiting from it.

You had a day to handle it.

So again,

I ask,

“Why are you so angry?”

Poem Jan 3

It took three years to sweat you out
To rid myself of the poison I took for you
I never imagined that I would every be back here
crawling back to you
begging for forgiveness

At this point I thought
I'd be happier
Freer
Or dead.
And none of that happened.
Instead, I'm stifled again
While you smother me
While I smother you
As I stifle your happiness
your freedom
as you wish for death.

You begged me to never come back
You never dreamed that I would be so foolish
As to crawl back to you
After getting rid of my poison
for three years

poem jan 1st

For as long as I can remember
I have always been "clever"
Always held the potential to be greater
Always held up to the light
To be examined
To be exhaulted
To radiate greatness

A time came that the light became to bright
So I created
A hollowed out replica
Of what everyone wanted to see
Jovial, good-natured,
And above all, clever
This shell shielded me
As I created a cage
To ward off
Further examination
In this cage,
I was able to throw myself
Against the walls
To remind myself
To feel
To cry
To let sadness rule

I built my cage
To be me
To choke on my worthlessness
To bath in my own loneliness
I made its exterior bright and bubbly
So no one could hear
The pained screams
The sickening blows
As I slam myself against my cell
Cracking every bone
Marring each layer of skin
Over And Over

The cycle hasn't ended
And I fear it never will

Do Oghene.

I've got this feeling inside me. It claws at me, eating away, hollowing me out. Making way for the foulness in my head. I try to fill it up myself, with anything I can hold onto, but the factory can produce faster than I can.
I can't scream it out. I can't block it out. I can't find another avenue to live. I can't shield myself. I never got that piece of armour. I can't keep on going down this road.
It hurts me. I can feel it in my skin. My bones are cracking underneath my fragility. I can taste it. It's creeping up. There is no in or out for me, just uncertainty. The relief I am looking for is a complete expulsion of toxic personalities in me.
I can't scream it out. I can't block it out. I can't find another avenue to live. I can't shield myself. I never got that piece of armour. I can't keep on going down this road.
The hardest part is every time I try it's never far enough to get my mind and soul in peace. I give it all. I give it up. I give it all, I give it up. I leave it all upon the floor, my heart, my mind, my soul, the piece of me I don't show. I leave it all.

Fat

You're a beautiful girl, just fat
Fat.
I never thought I would ever live this long
Even now I get angry
I thought I would die at 18, 20, 25
I kept hoping and praying that I would be taken in my sleep.
Obviously, I never did.
Doesn't mean I don't still hope.
I have built up my tolerance and walls
But it doesn't help
Fat still cuts through it all
Leaving behind holes for my soul to seep through.
So maybe when I die
Someday soon
Maybe I will make a gelatinous, ugly corpse
Or maybe a shrunken, hollow one
Either way, I will be empty inside when go

May 5th

To the Beckys and Brads who say fuck common sense and black feelings

It is not a paper towel,
Nor is it a tissue.
I am not a painting in a museum
Nor am I a sheep in a petting zoo.
My strands are not down for a pillow.
It is my hair.
That grows from my scalp.
For you to treat it any other way
Is Disrespectful

The brown expanse that stretches over fat, muscle, and bone
Is not chocolate
You will not eat it
Or lick it
Or caress it.
WE are not lovers
My skin, for everything it holds in, the cracks and bumps it showcases, is not for your consumption
For you to act any other way
Is Ridiculous

My eyes have seen a lot
My mind has endured so much
I have so much more personal growth in my path.
I do not have time to facilitate your personal growth as well.
Just because you didn't learn it in school, or you forgot
Does not mean it is my job to elevate you.
I am no ones mother, or Mamie. 
I have nieces and nephews to elevate before I even consider helping you.
We are adults
And just because your privilege keeps you sheltered, does not mean I am out of pocket when I tell you you are wrong.
For you to act any other way
Is Insulting.

Personally, I am done.
I have no more patience to devote to the cause of comforting Caucasians. Today, I start looking out for number one. This is your warning.

May 5th

To Black Podcasters

Thank you.
For being unapologetically individual in a cohesive unit.
For being political and nerdy.
For encouraging your listeners to be in apologetically themselves
For creating a safe space and interacting with your listeners.

If I could make one request, it will be for your happiness.
I may speak for myself, but your continued enthusiasm for life makes me want to fight for one more day.
For my race,
For my gender,
And for myself.
So thank you.

April 24

Cut open my stomach
Thighs
Arms and breast
Scrape out the sadness
Self loathing, hurt feelings
Make myself new
And staple myself shut