Walk where you belong
A story about why smart black girls end up with dumb thugs, drugs, guns, and murder.
Today, he visits you in a thin whisper, the voice of chilled faith, matter of factly, sourness in his speech. You can almost taste him in the closeness in which he speaks, the lingering smell of clean cotton in your half-open mouth where he rests your head. For scents which have a face, it is bleak cologne.
You know, many gentlemen wear watches, you like watches. A man who wears a watch is obedient, he knows the tick of this world, the rage of time. But Que is a wanderer, he knows not urgency. You often held his 9mm glock. They would not stop you and frisk you. You are coffee but you are not a man. Love is a mask for the things we hold in secret for one another.
The other day, you also saw him. This time, in a white mask. He looked like a dancer. He is not permanence.
You turn on your cold bunk, you wonder what he is reading now. Maybe his favorite book, The Art of War. "Has he been eaten whole by his ulcer in penitentiary?", you ask to no one.
No one understands why you, an educated, beautiful, black woman, fell for a drug dealer? As if he did not touch you softly in your underbelly before he began peddling. As if he too does not smile at any warmth his anemic hands are often wanting. Has love not fed and starved many people?
We all know that drug dealers have a way with stories. Que has this one story, "Here by my side", that you even submitted as your own in your creative writing class your second semester in college. You want to share it. You should share it.
"Here by my side" byQue Brittany
My patient painter is a chameleon. She has charmed the world with her voice, she writes poetry. She is a performance poet. She has colored all our suffering brilliant blue; in the dark silence of her kaleidoscope tempo is our love. She lays her contradictions and plates her fears so that the world can eat, we eat meaning.
Like the seasons change, sometimes my patient painter loves that the money can fly us away from the disconcertedness of the city life. We travel to somewhere hot where she can have me to herself, we like our togetherness alone. Other times, she throws the gifts at me, in anger, that they can not buy her love. She straddles between "this will kill me" and "fuck it, everything is wrong anyway".
But even in confusion, my patient painter does not surrender. She is furiously stroking her brush. She made it to a predominantly white institution on someone else's money. Once, she drew a question on where this money came from, what if it was coming from a soul which compromises her beliefs. My love, brush illegal money you receive as reparations, for slave labor is the only currency America owns. Where you can not make sense of things, chalk it to what is due to you and those who have little or nothing. You chameleon, in the momentarily beauty of transcendence, create new hues, manifest new understandings.
My patient painter is a warrior in the only battle that matters. You sit on light and embody evil in good, and in darkness, you see the complete absorption of light.
My patient painter, you change everything that changes you. My chameleon, you know the truth is never one thing, never in one being. No one is only good and no one is only evil. We all have sinned and fallen short. Love is patient.
Today, he visits you in a thin whisper, the voice of chilled faith, matter of factly, sourness in his speech. You can almost taste him in the closeness in which he speaks, the lingering smell of clean cotton in your half-open mouth where he rests your head. For scents which have a face, it is bleak cologne.
You know, many gentlemen wear watches, you like watches. A man who wears a watch is obedient, he knows the tick of this world, the rage of time. But Que is a wanderer, he knows not urgency. You often held his 9mm glock. They would not stop you and frisk you. You are coffee but you are not a man. Love is a mask for the things we hold in secret for one another.
The other day, you also saw him. This time, in a white mask. He looked like a dancer. He is not permanence.
You turn on your cold bunk, you wonder what he is reading now. Maybe his favorite book, The Art of War. "Has he been eaten whole by his ulcer in penitentiary?", you ask to no one.
No one understands why you, an educated, beautiful, black woman, fell for a drug dealer? As if he did not touch you softly in your underbelly before he began peddling. As if he too does not smile at any warmth his anemic hands are often wanting. Has love not fed and starved many people?
We all know that drug dealers have a way with stories. Que has this one story, "Here by my side", that you even submitted as your own in your creative writing class your second semester in college. You want to share it. You should share it.
"Here by my side" by
My patient painter is a chameleon. She has charmed the world with her voice, she writes poetry. She is a performance poet. She has colored all our suffering brilliant blue; in the dark silence of her kaleidoscope tempo is our love. She lays her contradictions and plates her fears so that the world can eat, we eat meaning.
Like the seasons change, sometimes my patient painter loves that the money can fly us away from the disconcertedness of the city life. We travel to somewhere hot where she can have me to herself, we like our togetherness alone. Other times, she throws the gifts at me, in anger, that they can not buy her love. She straddles between "this will kill me" and "fuck it, everything is wrong anyway".
But even in confusion, my patient painter does not surrender. She is furiously stroking her brush. She made it to a predominantly white institution on someone else's money. Once, she drew a question on where this money came from, what if it was coming from a soul which compromises her beliefs. My love, brush illegal money you receive as reparations, for slave labor is the only currency America owns. Where you can not make sense of things, chalk it to what is due to you and those who have little or nothing. You chameleon, in the momentarily beauty of transcendence, create new hues, manifest new understandings.
My patient painter is a warrior in the only battle that matters. You sit on light and embody evil in good, and in darkness, you see the complete absorption of light.
My patient painter, you change everything that changes you. My chameleon, you know the truth is never one thing, never in one being. No one is only good and no one is only evil. We all have sinned and fallen short. Love is patient.
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