Candid. My man told me to can it. He didn’t want to hear truth, but inexplicable counters that basically counterfeited the statement: I love you. And when you have my love that is all you need. Excuse me while I backfire truth with unprecedented details like Mahatma Gandhi turning Christian or Jesus turning Muslim. I’m not the prophet Muhammad, but I mirrored his attempts to assure my people that my word is liability. Pure solitude from many nights ago harbored concealed/ unascertained promises from the pit of my belly. My belly harvested a well kept secret told three months too early. My feelings were hurt when I realized he couldn’t bear your image. I wish he was here. I wanted to name him fidelity, in homage to your prolific dissertation that asserted its way through my ears and hung onto my vocal chords. I couldn’t speak after you, so physical contact was our only form of communication. After many pushes and penetration, increased friction didn’t seem to make any more sense. Loud vowels replaced actual sentences. Tossed emotions made up for lost moments we waited for so long. Now that we had the opportunity, we wasted it. All along soaked walls, you can say you scribbled “mine for the taking”, and within each contraction, I was reminded.
“Behind my smile of whiteness is politeness. But it’ll never see the light of day like a baby born in Rikers.”