1. Doing intentional vulnerability in the face of. Sad girl tears that I cry. Not free. There is something to be said about how I feel things. Textiles of my own emotions like felt, dry grass, wet pavement, tear drop in the eye. Like the sadness that has no choice but to couple with resilience. Like never giving up and not knowing how that is possible. And knowing it. And also not knowing it. And knowing it so well, even when suddenly the spotlight gets shone on Murder. A continual spectacle that speaks-- Their body, my body, your body. As if we were not even there. As if we could not even feel. What being hurt feels like. I still know how to believe. about Black. And being. But right now I have one foot-in, and one foot-out of the door of my own life.
2. This, defined by horror, has no hope. Breaking my stride into bits of fragment. Shards of my own ability to feel human, a guttural scream. A notation of resilience and militaristic cadence. Ordering my own willingness, willed from dirt, blood, elbow grease, a small fire in the throat. Into lust for something more, No Hope, something that wails, No Hope. Not carrying your hope. Not carrying it on my back. Not carrying it like a mantlepiece carries the words ‘He’s so nice. So masculine.’ Fire. violence. Viscous green tea leaves. This marginal violence. This fracture of horror. This being. My back. My work. My neck. Our necks. Our collective necks.