Cigarette Shadows
I love your cigarette breath.
When the smoke slithers down my throat,
and plants roots in my lungs.
You transcend me,
the wine that drips from your finger nails blinds me.
There are cuts in my eyes half dried,
filled with your alcoholic lips.
But still, I pull you closer.
Somewhere lost in my memory,
I know your venomous touch.
But lately,
your arms are starting to resemble the scarves my grandmother gave me.
There are roses sprouting from your eyelids,
but your petals are falling.
Or am I plucking them,
burying them beneath my tongue?
I just love your hands, so strong.
The way each finger resembles a blade that cannot help but find it’s way into my aura.
I know I am broken.
I know what I look like when 3am rolls around
and my shoulders are pointed towards the moon
begging for forgiveness.
I’m struggling.
I want to resemble the sun,
but you have tinged my soul with your goddamn cigarette breath. Maybe the tar will eventually be so sticky
I can use it to catch the sun’s rays,
but you are quick to remind me
that life does not work that way.
My breasts look like the spilled ink
you were using to draw your constellations of lost stars and tortured souls with.
~There are Stars in your Eyes, Raven Fortson
Angry Black Woman
She wakes every day,
the weight of oppression, bears on her soul
as if to eradicate all that is light.
Her never ending fight with herself,
constantly searching for the right tone.
Who will she be today,
well dressed, tamed, reserved?
All to curb the urge to rip out of her skin.
The taste of micro-aggressions stings,
the intensity of cyanide chased with vodka.
So HELL YEAH she is angry!
You try being demanded to,
change your hair, bleach your skin,
switch your dialect.
Even to lose a son,
at the hands of those who swore to protect him.
Wouldn’t you be angry?
She has been forced to claw and fight
through systemic housing segregation,
discrimination, education inequities,
high poverty, and murder rates.
Being her ain’t easy.
But the Lord, is the shield around her,
the one who lifts her head high.
without the grace of God,
she would be the lion taring prey to shreds.
She is resilient, unwavering,
strong. For she endures suppression.
scarfs it down for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Digesting shards tearing through her
hiding behind her smiling society accepted persona.
Built from her historically covered pass,
and assumed future
Is she really Angry?
Or just tired of the bull.
~Symone Terrell
