And here we are,
Standing on the precipice of blade,
And welts of lashes that dripped blood
like ripe fruit down the corners of hungry lips.
At what point did perspectives
Turn into insanity,
And blinding narcissism?

I cannot remember a time,
In which I did not question
the validity of my blackness in america.
There was never a time,
In which my innocence as a child
Precluded the realism of the world.
I was left in dark and dank alleyways,
With rounds of fireworks
At 2 am clutching the floor in hope.

And so here I am,
Forced to jump on the blade,
While my brothers and sisters
Lay holy from star-spangled badges.
At what point was Black
synonymous with martyrdom?

Since before King And Malcolm?
And chain and whip?
And cycled recycled?


6 thoughts on “Metamorphic

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