"Not About" Swaying. My tears stupid? reckless? The swaying of her body, back and forth, to the rhythm of his fall his peril unverified? My hurt undignified? How trepidatiously she held righteousness's hand that day. You don't get to have a say bout what feels real My heart's valves are the only things you can't quantify and extrapolate data from Because you wanna look at vandalism accessorized by a state-sanctioned nihilism use that as an excuse to vilify waking and moving people My tears stupid? Not that. Not again. You don't get to do that again To use My vulnerability as an excuse to commit murder. My openness in this field of blood no. We believe despite what history has shown us. We pray in spite of being strong-armed into tailor-made pipelines That just not good enough for you? You want more? reckless. The way in which you demand starched ironed shirts from us The way in which you demand that we fold our arms and legs into ourselves as we walk. How you talk some of us into believing that we somehow biologically unsuited for love. because you kick us outta class. 'cause we loud (restless) 'cause our clothes (expression) 'cause we shoot (escape) 'cause we shoot (escape) 'cause anything but capable of contradiction we an unfinished drawing we an abandoned prototype we try too hard. some of us try too hard to shape our bodies into custom-fitted buoys and large-breasted caterers and still some of us, not wearing those starched shirts, are forced into those pipelines, so painstakingly created by those that would have us be a whisper of a scent on this Western skin 'Cause we lawless. 'Cause we sideshow. 'Cause we express our boredom too ostentatiously in that room, tightened by all those damn desks Can't breathe with all those desks. Instead of throwing a lifeline out to those young men that be choking on the hot air in that room You tell us, with the conviction and angst of a swelling, Southern mob that the rhythm of our swaying bodies is not held up by any applicable data. (2014)
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