brown is okay with me.

a poem of clarity.

 

Brown is okay with me.

Do you view it the way I see?

 

It is the mahogany of the grandest trees.
It is the coffee and tea which raise you from your sleep.
It is the caramel of the sugar you burn.
It is the desert sand from which your gods are born.
It is the bones of houses, new and old.
It is the wool and fur, warming you in the cold.
It is the hidden gems beneath the earth.
It is the combination of color and warmth from your hearth.
It is the wheat through which your fingers pass.

It is the pile of leaves to jump into at last.

 

So why can it not be the color of my skin?

Of my parents, my ancestors, my friends, and my kin?

 

My bark, my shell, my bones, my hair,

Must count for some amongst the Fair.

 

For I have so many hidden gems beneath.

I am a fighting sword waiting in its sheath.

 

I am above and below and around and through,
Why can it not be okay with you?

The Long Road: A [De]Composition


I was whole.
I basked in the sun.
I relished in the way the sprigs of new wheat and tall grass touched my shoulders, my face, my skin.
There are still fragments of it on me, even now.

I waited.
In the end, we all take shortcuts. The long road seems so tiresome.
My feet touched the pavement.
I saw the mist coming off the lake in the early morning, a familiar ghost, a promise.
One foot in front of the other, they told me. Their voices are echoes rattling in my bones and muscles, a cacophony of calcium and cartilage.

I just wanted the taste of life between my hands.
I wanted to see the morning.
Fill me in, rising sun. Fill me whole again.

The impact reminded me of birth.
A light, a warmth, a strange place to wander into.
The comfort always came later.
I waited for it. Waited with shaking breath and twitching limbs and watering eyes.
The moon began to leave my line of sight. I no longer felt the pull of galaxies and universes between my heartbeats.
Fill me in stars, fill me in where the treads have emptied me.

I always thought too much.
Weighted decisions seem so distant and pointless now.
My brain is forced to stop now, to look around instead.
Time is limited, yet long, full of visitors.
I watched each one. Felt each one. Looked at their uncaring grimaces, and sometimes, words leaving their lips.

They do not know me.
They do not know the stories I hold in my spirit.
They only see me for what I am now, beneath them.
I have lived and birthed and eaten and stole and given and killed.
I have loved.

They want the long road.
Some will take shortcuts like me.
Some will be luckier.

The lake is far now, but I am not bitter.
I have broken apart, but I am starting a new story.
I have lost and grieved and wanted and cried and felt joy.

I am blood and bone and matter and hair on your wheels.
What’s left of me feeds others.
Fill me in, life, fill me into something new.

I am whole.
I bask in the sun.
I relish in the way I grow.
I was once fragmented and jagged but now I am full.
I am a piece of everything, everything a piece of me.

she used to be mine – a love letter to an imperfect self.

Soundtrack.


If I could turn the clock back to 15 years ago, I would tell you to put them down.

I know in the melancholia of the evening, they feel like grains of sand and shells from the beaches some 45 minutes away. You haven’t been in awhile. You miss the salt water. You can feel it in your nose even now, the taste of it in the corner of your lips carrying the oil from your cheeks.

You grasp them tightly, feeling your fingertips curl into the flesh of your palm.
The shaking is minimal now, despite the ongoing turbulence of the yelling in the background.

You think this will shut the noise off.
These are not silencers, girl.

This is glass with rounded corners.
They will cut you by masquerading as warmth and kept promises.
It takes you for a fool.
The phone will ring. Pick it up. It will be a friend that needs you.
I know – When will someone be there for me? you ask.

This is a question that will never go away, especially when you’re my age.
You bite your tongue.
A little bit of blood is okay. It means you’re still here.
Throw that sand back in the ocean, girl.
Watch the waves pull it away.

However inconsequential it may seem, you matter in this moment.
You matter always.
Even when your words go unread, and your voice unheard, and your presence unnoticed – the world has a way of acknowledging your whispers.

The monster will return, this much I know.
You learn to bargain, to protest, to shape it back into something small and pushing it back onto the mainland.
It is as rough as the ocean.
But you will also learn to swim, pushing your feet away from the sand and off the ground.

Almost as if you are flying, when actually, you are living.